Dreamcast 2, p.25
Dreamcast 2, page 25
“It is, Pete. The poor guy tore himself to pieces over it. He repressed it but it came out in therapy.”
“But after 27 years?” The idea didn’t fit comfortably into his head. “That’s not just a cold case, that’s an ice age.”
“Take it from me, the man’s screwed up but genuine. I was all over this with a psychic magnifying glass and he’s telling the truth.”
“His version of the truth,” Maclure muttered.
“Handle him with care. The guy’s very fragile.”
“So I noticed. Terry’s the most sensitive person I got on staff, your client will be all right with him.”
We changed topics and talked about his personal difficulties. They had subpoenaed his case log and files, searching for irregularities.
“I tell you Travis, the whole thing is a crock of shit, and were this not an election year with the DA needing to make points with the media, all this wouldn’t amount to a fart. But don’t be concerned, I’ll beat it. I have friends and allies.” Yes, cops stick together, I thought but didn’t say. Instead, I asked about Toma. He warmed up a little, though it wasn’t in his nature to smarm.
I hung around Homicide for nearly two hours before Tom was returned to me. He looked a little worse for the wear, but much of the tension we arrived with had left him. The thing was now in the open and couldn’t be taken back. He didn’t seem inclined to talk and neither was I. I drove him to his place, said goodbye and went home.
That evening I reported everything to Amanda, who was very concerned about her client.
“You think the police believed him?”
“Maclure did.”
“Of course he did. He knows you and your abilities. But the rank and file?”
“I don’t know. A formal statement’s been filed and they have to do something with it. Maclure said they’ll pass it on to the appropriate jurisdiction in Iowa and the rest will be up to them. They’ll probably send a couple of cops to interview Tom and everything will likely depend on how credibly he performs for them.” I shrugged my shoulders. “We did what we had to; the rest is out of our hands.”
“Not quite. I still have a patient who’ll be dragged through hell over this. His troubles are my troubles.”
From then on, things accelerated at breakneck speed. Tom was asked to come down to the station and go through a follow-up interview, where his statement was compared with the original version. He passed that. Then cops from Iowa had a go at him, grilled him and took his statement apart piece by piece. They couldn’t understand the 27 years. Amanda had to go down twice herself to attest to his mental state and the history of his illness. Even I was interviewed as a possible witness. What could I tell them? I was present through some of the therapy and I heard what I heard. Of course I didn’t say anything about my psychic readings of Tom.
The two cops from Iowa were all right, the usual hard-bitten, no-nonsense guys. They had difficulty swallowing Tom’s mental condition.
“Let me get this straight, he had amnesia for 27 years?”
“No, an amnesiac tries to remember, but can’t. Mr. Davis tried to forget and fragmented over it. Remember, he was 10 years old at the time,” Amanda corrected.
“I think I’d remember murder at any age,” the other cop threw in.
“You better talk to a psychologist or a psychiatrist to explain the process. I’m just a bystander here,” I said when my turn came.
“Your wife’s a psychologist,” the cop pointed out needlessly.
“And a good one. But you better get an independent view to confirm the condition.”
“Don’t worry, we will.” The cop rubbed his chin, considering. “The thing is we haven’t got any evidence. We’ve already interviewed some of Mrs. Davis’ relatives and old friends, and found out that they haven’t heard from her all these years. Everyone believes that she ran away with a salesman and hid from her ex. For God’s sake, isn’t that a joke? A travelling salesman? But it’s strange that no missing persons report was ever filed.” Sergeant so-and-so from Iowa pinpointed the problem with the case: no physical evidence. No body, no murder weapon, no paper trail, nothing. “We only have Mr. Davis’ word for it. And let me tell you some of the details are confused and there’s his mental history. Frankly, I don’t think I can convince the DA to take on the case.”
“So, that’s it? You’ll simply close the file?”
“No, not quite. We’ll dig around a bit. But with no one directly pushing the case, with no concrete evidence, we likely won’t get very far.”
Things didn’t look good. Wednesday was approaching and Uncle Chester was scheduled to arrive. He and his wife had reservations at the Regency and he expected Tom to call to arrange a get-together. Tom was apprehensive. He was afraid to go, but also afraid not to go. In the end, he went, pretending everything was normal. Amanda and I were trying to coach him through the coming meeting.
The police wanted him to wear a wire, to record some incriminating admission from the uncle, but Tom was against it.
“What if he discovers I’m wearing it?”
“Look, we need evidence,” I pressed. “At this point all we have is your word and that isn’t going to be enough to go to trial with. We need something else, anything. Perhaps he’ll implicate himself when he talks to you. It would help if you could bring Aunt Giselle into the conversation.”
Amanda was more cautious, wanting to protect her client. “He’s shaky and vulnerable. We got most of the personalities reintegrated, but more pressure and he might submerge, run away or start spinning off new personalities to hide from this reality. So go easy. I can’t have him messed up.”
In the end, Tom reluctantly agreed to wear a wire. I promised to stay in sight wherever he went and that quieted him somewhat. Amanda saw him daily to bolster his confidence.
“It’ll be a piece of cake,” the cop fixing the wire on Tom said. “This is the latest model, very slim and invisible.”
Still Tom was terrified. Uncle Chester and he had agreed to meet in the hotel restaurant for dinner, just the two of them. At the mere thought of the meeting, Tom broke into a sweat and his hands shook.
“Nothing to it,” Iowa-2 added.
“I’ll be just two tables away,” I said. “And there’ll be detectives in the restaurant and uniforms outside. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of.” But he did; years of anxiety had worn him down.
We took separate taxis to the Regency and I was at a safe distance as Tom met Uncle Chester in the lobby. I could tell Tom was nervous but the uncle appeared genuinely happy to see him. I inspected the man, a robust 60 or so, stocky, a little overweight, with a bush of white hair. His movements were strong and direct. In spite of his age, not a man to trifle with. I sampled his mind quickly, getting the impression that he was relaxed, enjoying himself. A sense of pressure also came through; by a simple force of will the uncle was exerting his influence over his nephew. No wonder that Tom was so jumpy. Behind them, I spotted the two Iowa detectives pretending to be on the phones.
Uncle Chester and Tom moved off to the restaurant and after a discreet interval I followed them, finding a seat three tables away that gave me a good view of them. Tom could see me and I hoped that the sight of me within reach would give him courage. A little later I saw the cops take a table further back. They were hooked into the wire connection and could overhear the ongoing conversation. I had to depend on body language and the mood I could decipher from their brain activity. Tom was jittery throughout but his uncle still seemed at ease. At times, I was afraid that Tom would somehow crumble and give the game away, but on the whole, the meal went well. They lingered over coffee. Uncle Chester paid, patting his nephew on the back. In the lobby there was a protracted leave-taking in which he left his hands to rest on Tom’s arm possessively. Finally, Uncle took the elevator, and a visibly relieved Tom hurried from the lobby.
The two cops joined me and one of them made a face. “We heard a bit that implied sexual interference with a minor, but nothing conclusive. Our Mr. Davis didn’t bring up his aunt, so we have nothing there.”
“What next?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I suppose we’ll try one more time but after that, who knows?” We all left.
Amanda was waiting rather anxiously at home. The woman just could not insulate herself from caring. I had to describe everything, analyze everything, and make guesses.
“The evening didn’t go badly but it didn’t advance the case any. There were some sexual innuendoes but nothing incriminating. The cops will try again, but if they still come up with nothing, they won’t have anything to investigate in Iowa.”
“What can we do?”
“Do? We’ve done what we could.”
“I mean, using your psychic powers.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. You’ll come up with something. You always do.”
“You want me to find psychic emanations after 27 years?”
“All I know is that you’ve solved all the other cases… well now solve mine.” I knew how fiercely protective she was of her patients: it was one of the things I loved about her. And I remembered how hard she worked on my case when I was accused of Jenny’s murder. Of course I was going to help her any way I could, I just didn’t know how.
We had a meeting in Maclure’s office to discuss strategy: Pete, the two Iowa cops, Tom and me. Another lunch date with the uncle had been set up and this time, apparently, Tom had promised the cops that he would definitely bring Auntie into the discussion. He also agreed to wear a wire again and was reassured I’d be within view. After the details had been finalized, the two cops left and much relieved, so did Tom. This left just Maclure and me to socialize. Smythe joined us, bringing coffee, and the trio of adventurers reminisced.
“I hear you’re working a case with Maclure again,” Smythe said, mixing extra sugar into his cup.
“It concerns one of Amanda’s clients,” I said.
“It’s really Iowa’s jurisdiction. We’re just helping out.” Maclure sketched out our involvement.
“So, if nothing comes of this meeting, Iowa simply walks away?” Smythe got the point fast.
“Not if I can help it,” I asserted. I’d promised Amanda I’d try and I intended to.
“What can you do? What will you do?” both asked in unison.
“Go to Iowa. Perhaps you can set me up with the cops there. You know, put in a good word for me.”
“I don’t know. They’re wondering how come we’re working with a civilian.”
“I’m supporting Tom in this investigation. To steady him.”
“OK, but in Iowa? What’re you planning anyway?”
“I don’t know yet. Cast about, see where the psychic leads me.” We exchanged knowing looks; we’d been down this road before and experienced what ESP could do.
For the second meeting, we arrayed ourselves in a similar configuration, the police in the back and I with a good view of the target. On the whole, the meal went smoothly, mixing conversation with eating. Only twice did Tom and his uncle’s body language become tense and emphatic, but neither instance lasted long. Afterward, there was again a lengthy leave-taking in the lobby.
“Anything?” I asked the cops converging on me.
“Not much. Mr. Davis brought up the aunt, how he missed her and such, but his uncle sloughed it off. Another time, Mr. Davis mentioned the fights between his uncle and aunt and the uncle nearly took our boy’s head off but he didn’t admit to anything incriminating. I think it’s a lost cause, and we might as well go home.”
“Do you mind if I visit you in Des Moines? Just to look around.”
“Maclure said as much. He thinks a lot of you. But I don’t know. I don’t see what you can do. We have no case. The file will be closed. It contains only a deposition sheet from a mental patient.”
“And our expense account for this trip.” The two cops smirked at each other. “Don’t get me wrong, we enjoyed this holiday in the South. It was good to get away from the everyday crap and do something different. Eat at your expense.” He winked at Maclure.
“Still, I could beat the bushes, shake the trees to see what falls off.”
“Suit yourself. You’re a private citizen. No one’s going to stop you.”
“But if I stumble over something and come to you...” I paused to let them process the statement.
“Maclure gave you high marks and you have his confidence. He said you helped him several times.” He exchanged looks with his subordinate, then nodded. “You come in with something, we’ll listen.” Good enough.
Chapter 18
Two days later I landed in Des Moines and took a cab to the Courtyard where I had reservations for a week. I checked in, unpacked and dialed the police station.
“Sergeant Wilcox.” I was put through. “Travis Howard here. I’m in town. I’ve checked into the Courtyard, room 609. I’ll be here for a week. Do you have anything for me?”
“Yeah, one second, let me find it.” I heard a rustling of paper. “Chester Davis, 63, living at 85 Lumina Crescent, which he owns and has fully paid off. Retired. Wife, Claire Davis, 57, librarian, working at the main branch downtown. Has a good credit rating, no criminal record. Not even a traffic ticket. That’s about it... Oh yeah. 27 years ago Chester Davis lived at 34 Apple Orchard Gate with his wife Giselle May Davis, nee Pattison, who hasn’t been seen or heard from since. I’ll send over a fact sheet to your hotel with a list of friends and relatives.” I heard him shuffling more paper. “But for Christ’s sake, be gentle when you shake those trees, we don’t want the public calling us on account of some wild, unsubstantiated accusations.”
“No sweat. I’ll be careful.”
Two hours later there was a knock and a bellboy handed over a manila envelope. Inside was the promised info.
I called Amanda next. “I’m in the hotel. I made contact with the local cops and they’re OK with me poking about as long as I’m discreet.”
“Good. Do you know how you’ll start?”
“Not yet. I tried to think about it on the flight, but I ended up next to a nervous woman who talked the whole time.”
“Well you be careful with whatever you undertake. Remember he’s killed before.”
“Yeah, right.” We said goodbye after that.
I took a bath, trying to come up with something while soaking in the hot water. I had a choice between a couple of options.
The next morning I took a cab to the Main Library. I wanted to take a look at the new Mrs. Davis. Actually, according to the police info, they’d been married for 9 years.
Behind the circulation desk I spotted a middle-aged woman with the name tag Claire, who fit the description. Taking a seat at some distance, I observed her while pretending to leaf through a book. She was calm, methodical and at ease with her job. Her thought patterns were normal too, no dark or overly bright areas. She looked to be a healthy fifty-something. One of the coworkers addressed her as Ms. Davis, confirming her identity. Later, a supervisor-type talked to her rather officiously but she remained calm and respectful; she didn’t act cowed or perturbed, not like an abused woman might. It seemed that Mr. Davis had not taken his anger out on her. He was capable of it; I knew that from the previous reading of him.
I watched some more, but found nothing out of the ordinary about Mrs. Davis. She seemed like a decent, normal person. I rose and left, careful not to catch her eye.
I walked a distance downtown to get a sense of Des Moines, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I grabbed a taxi and had myself driven along Lumina Crescent. As we passed number 85, I had a quick look at a modest, split level brick bungalow on a large lot. There was a tree in front and hedges on the sides. The lawn was neatly cut, doors and windows newly painted, the place well maintained, only the shingles on the roof on the last leg of their 25 year warranty. Whatever else he might be, Mr. Davis ran a tight ship.
On the corner I got out, paid the cabby and walked around the neighborhood. There were a few for-sale signs on the lawns, but not the forest of them as on the Gulf Coast. The cars parked in the driveways were decent, newer vehicles. This was middle income territory and recession hasn’t taken a huge bite out of it.
On impulse I walked into the grocery store. I scanned the bulletin board, finding notices of lost pets, items for sale, services for hire, and among them an announcement for a block party. Checking the attached map, I found Lumina Crescent included. Should I? I wondered, perhaps I should. I made note of the date two days hence.
I took a cab back to the hotel, ate and settled myself in my room. Consulting my list of friends and relatives of the late Mrs. Davis, I dialed and got a pleasant-sounding woman on the phone.
“My name is Peter Pattison and I’m trying to compile a family history. I was wondering if we’re related, seeing we share the name.”
“Peter Pattison? Doesn’t ring a bell.” She sounded vaguely suspicious, so I piled it on.
“My parents are sadly both dead and we lost all our documents when our house burned down. They were Doug and Nancy Pattison, longtime residents of Omaha. I have no other known relatives. All I know is that we came through Pennsylvania in the late 1800’s.. My second child was just born and I thought it was time to put together a family background for them...” I kept on and on, being directed by the tension in her voice, clueing me when to slow down and be really careful.
In the end she gave me her complete genealogy, the more recent one. Of course I was interested in her sisters: Esther and Giselle Pattison. Esther was living in Boston and had a different married name.
“What about Giselle?” I asked.
There was a hesitation as she thought that over. “We lost track of Giselle a long time ago,” came the rather terse reply. Immediately I veered away, and asked about precise dates and relationships. Only later did I return to Giselle, asking if she had any children. No, no children. An ex-husband, but he had married again and knew nothing.
“It’s strange. I’ve come across more dead ends than leads. There’re lots of Pattisons in the Midwest and I might be related to all of them. Who knows? I hate losing connection with family.”
