Face Off (12 page)

Jessie dropped her eyes. “You won't believe me. That man”—she pointed to Harry—“that man made fun of Suzanne because she said she was a psychic. Well, he can just make fun of me, too, then, because
that's
how I saw Amy.”

“Just a minute,” Suzanne interrupted. “That part about the monkeys means something to you, doesn't it? There is some connection to Clark, isn't there?”

The two detectives exchanged glances, then Harry spoke. “Randal Clark is an electrician. A pretty good one, we're told. He works for a carnival part of each year. When we were doing background on him, we went to the carnival. One of their attractions is a group of trained monkeys who do a ‘high-wire' act on sawhorses, using umbrellas to balance themselves. How could she know that?”

“She
told
you how, Detective!” Suzanne said. “She is a psychic, just like me! Well, not
just
like me. I usually have to touch the person before I can get a reading, Jessie doesn't.”

Harry looked at the gorgeous young woman.
Dammit, why did all the knockouts have to turn out to be kooks?

Suzanne realized the detective still wasn't buying their story. She reached over and placed her hand on Detective Stahl's arm. Scenes started flashing into her mind immediately. Keeping her hand on his arm, she began speaking.

“Detective, your wife's name is Ruth. You have two sons, who have given you five grandchildren. Oh, and you have one more on the way. Let's see, you used to live in Chicago and you know a man named Willie. Willie Rodriquez. He is helping you on this case, somehow.” Suzanne glanced at Detective McDermott and was pleased to see she now had his undivided attention.

“Your favorite food is chili, but the doctors have told you to quit eating it. Sometimes you sneak off to a restaurant called Manny's and eat it, anyway. Oh, and you have a dog named Carrot—a dachshund. You are worried about having to put him to sleep because he is almost seventeen years old.” Suzanne held up her arms in question. “Well, do I need to go on?”

Jim stepped away from Suzanne. “No. You've made a believer out of me.”

“I don't understand,” Harry said. “Do you mean to tell me that simply by touching a person, that person's life unfolds in your mind? Every aspect of his life?”

Suzanne shook her head. “No. Only those parts of the life which hold some meaning, or have been on a person's mind at some point.”

“Does this happen every time you touch someone?” Jim asked. “Like at the grocery store or when you're on a date?”

Inexplicably, quick, hot tears filled Suzanne's eyes. She nodded in answer to the detective's question, not trusting herself to speak.

“But you couldn't read me, right?” Harry asked. “So it doesn't happen with everybody?”

Suzanne swallowed hard, trying to keep a tremble out of her voice when she answered. “
Almost
everyone, Detective. There have only been a few times in my life when the scenes didn't come, whether I wanted them to or not. I could never do a reading on my father. Of course the fact that I was terrified of him could account for that. Aside from him though, there have only been three or four times in my life when I have been unable to get a reading.”

“Doesn't it drive you nuts?” Jim asked.

“Sort of. But I can control it by simply not touching anyone. Other psychics get bombarded by images when they are at home alone, or just walking down a street. At least I don't have that to contend with.”

“Yeah,” Jim said, understanding her problem perfectly, “but I doubt there are many psychics out there with your degree of talent.”

“She was the psychic involved in the Underwood killings,” Harry said. “You remember, those serial killings in Omaha where the guy got off because his lawyers said the psychic had made him testify against himself, or some such rot? Then the minute he was released he killed two more little girls.”

Jessie, who had been standing silent, taking it all in, responded to Harry. “Yeah, and if Suzanne hadn't been there when they stopped the guy for running a red light, he might have killed a dozen more girls before he was stopped. Doesn't anyone ever think about
that?
”

Harry was beginning to feel like a world-class heel. “I'm sorry,” he said to Suzanne. “I've just never believed in any of this psychic stuff. It's a little hard for me to realize I might have been wrong.”

“I know. That's what the detectives in Omaha said until they saw me work, which, by the way, I don't do anymore. I only agreed to help the Matthews family because this young lady”—she nodded toward Jessie—“nagged me into it.”

Harry knew he shouldn't ask his next question because of future court action, but he asked it anyway. “So what did you find out from Clark?”

Suzanne shrugged. “He's your man. No question about it. But I didn't get very far. All at once it was like a brick wall had been thrown up and I couldn't get beyond it. When I asked about Amy, I started to get a vision. I saw her lying down, with Clark standing over her, shoveling dirt. But then an extreme terror came over me and somehow it was me in the vision, me who Clark was standing over. Yet, strangely, I don't believe it was Clark who frightened me.”

Harry's eyebrows shot up, as once again skepticism set in.

“You said there was no question he was our man. How were you able to determine that?” Jim asked.

“I saw the other girls. I saw their faces. I saw them being hacked apart, and Clark was the one doing it. There is not a doubt in my mind that he is the Kansas City Butcher. None!”

Jim and Harry exchanged glances, then Harry spoke. “That's what we think, too. By the way, there isn't any way Clark could know who you are, is there?”

Suzanne shook her head confidently. “No. Absolutely not. I certainly never gave him my name, and I have kept a pretty low profile since moving to Kansas City. I only know a handful of people, and none of them knows anything at all about my psychic work, thank God.”

“Good,” Jim said. “At least that's one thing we won't have to worry about.”

*   *   *

The two men sat in a worn, plastic-covered booth far to the back of Rocky's Bar & Grill. “I don't have much time, you stupid bastard!” Randal Clark said. “I gave the police the slip about twenty minutes ago, but they'll find me before long. What the hell were you thinking of, raping that girl? You were supposed to stay with the game plan. The same MO, remember? You could have screwed the whole deal.”

“What are you so friggin' nervous about? You're here, ain't you?” Floyd answered. “I must have done somethin' right.”

“Well, never mind. We have more trouble than that to deal with. Some woman came to visit me in jail. She was dressed up like a nun, but she was definitely no nun. I think she was one of those
seers
or something. You know—a mind reader, or psychic. She kept putting her hands on me, then she'd sort of go into a damned trance or something. Scared the shit out of me, I'll tell you.”

Floyd felt the blood drain from his face as he set his glass of beer down on the table to keep from spilling it. “A psychic? How old? What did she look like?”

“You're thinking…?”

“Maybe. I don't know. Last I knew, she was in Omaha, helping the police.”

“Well, we have to find out, man! She asked me specifically about Amy Matthews. And you know where she is. Don't forget the property is in your name. If anybody finds her, it leads right back to you, my friend.”

“I should have killed that bitch when I had the chance!” Floyd said.

Randal Clark managed a grin as he stared across the table, speaking to Floyd with forced friendliness. “But just think how much more enjoyable it will be now, man! Hell, we might even do a
butcher
number on her if she gives us too much trouble!”

Chapter Twelve

Randal Clark sat puzzling over his best plan long after Floyd had left. He had picked up his tail again, spotting the cop almost as soon as the man had entered the bar. He'd wait awhile, then go up and offer to buy him a drink. Lousy cops. Most of them couldn't find their ass with their hands, but they sure as hell pranced around like they owned the sun and the moon. He hadn't even made it difficult for them to find him. He had parked his car right out front. They sure couldn't say he was trying to elude them. He decided to stay right where he was while he contemplated what to do about Floyd. That was his number one problem right now.

The biggest worry with Floyd was that he simply wasn't the brightest guy on the block. If the chips were down, would Floyd just cut a deal and throw him to the wolves? Of course he would. In a friggin' New York minute. Even though Floyd had an alibi for some of the murders that he, himself, committed, would he be able to withstand cross-examination while they were confirming this? Doubtful. Floyd, when you got right down to it, was a coward. Sure he killed once in a while, but never where there was much chance at detection. Hell, he probably shit his drawers over doing that little favor for Randal!

He had to admit, though, that it had been a lucky day for him when he teamed up with Floyd, ten years ago. They had made a pact. If either one of them ever really got in trouble, the other would commit a crime, using his MO. Randal had known when they shook hands on it that he would be the only one to ever need that insurance. His killings were signature killings. There were plenty of little details that were only his handiwork. It would be easy for someone to copy his killings, given the information.

Floyd was another story altogether. He killed at random, whenever it profited him to do so. And his deaths were almost always people that society would never miss. If he killed a widow for her money, you could bet your sweet ass she wasn't the cream of the crop. Floyd would kill for a thousand dollars. Hell, once he had killed some guy whose car had broken down on the interstate for fifteen dollars in cash and six lottery tickets. So how he thought he was getting a good bargain in their little deal, Randal never knew. There was no way in hell Randal could duplicate one of Floyd's murders. There wasn't anything similar about them. But then Floyd wasn't exactly the brainy type. Not like him. Except perhaps on one score. He didn't know Floyd's real name. The guy had used at least a dozen different ones since he had known him.

Maybe he should just get rid of the bastard. Perhaps set him up to take the fall for a butcher killing, but then make certain he didn't leave alive. Hell, maybe he could even set the scene to make it look like Floyd took his own life. But then what would happen if it turned out that Floyd was in jail or something on one of the nights the butcher killed? No. He needed to take it easy, not go off half-cocked. Good planning was essential. Not that he was any too worried about the police figuring out jack!

Randal eyed the cop at the bar in disgust. If it weren't for the pressure he knew would be put on, he would let the butcher start wasting some of the city's finest—those men in blue who were supposed to watch out for the weak and defenseless! Shit. They couldn't even protect a little seven-year-old kid—and didn't have enough brains to know when they were being had!

*   *   *

When he awoke, the pain was almost more than he could bear. His jaw was wired, and his eyes mere slits in his head. His father! Oh, God, what had happened to his father?

He saw her hand sliding across the white blanket toward him, and shrank back, trying to make himself invisible.

“Don't be frightened, dear. I'm right here. You are going to be fine. Your father won't be beating you anymore. May God forgive me, but I shot him—to protect you. You don't have anything to worry about anymore.

Randal squeezed his swollen eyes shut to hold the tears back. His mother didn't like tears—said they were a sign of weakness, and she would not have that in a son of hers.

“Oh, my poor, poor baby. Go ahead and cry if you want to. I'm so sorry you had to go through all of this. So sorry. I should have protected you better. I should have known what was going on.”

Slowly, through the haze of pain and medication, Randal realized there had to be someone else in the room. That was his mother's
public
voice—the one she always let the world hear. He turned his head toward the police officer standing on the other side of his bed. He remembered the moment his dad had come home early from work and saw what his wife was doing. He remembered the shock on his face when the shotgun blew him back against the wall. He had to tell—for his dad and for his little brother. He looked up at the officer and spoke through clenched teeth quickly, before his nerve left him. “My mother. She did it!” The officer looked down at him, then patted the bedcovers near his arm. “Now don't you worry, son. We aren't going to press charges against your sweet momma. She was just doing what she needed to do to protect you and your brother. You can rest easy, now. You'll be going home with your momma just as soon as you are well.”

Randal could feel hard pressure on his wrist, as his mother lay across the bed, her blond hair spilling across his chest and her body covering the death grip she had on him. The sound of her loud sobbing drowned out the words he was whispering. He looked up at the officer who was now gently patting his mother's back, consoling her. At that moment, Randal hated him, almost as much as he hated his mother.

Randal's hand tightened around the shot glass as he remembered the cruelty he had had to endure for eight more years. Leonard, his frail, sickly younger brother could not tolerate their mother's deadly blows, so Randal quickly learned to divert all of her anger onto himself to spare the boy. When he was nine, his mother's punishment for “touching himself” had been swift and savage. He could still remember the look on her face as she ripped the lamp cord from the socket, then cut the cord and plugged it back in. Had he known what would happen, he would have fought her, would have run. But he figured she was only going to beat him with the cord. Right up to the minute she touched the hot cord to his penis, he hadn't realized what was happening.