Face Off (8 page)

“He's the one.” Suzanne turned to Sands and Botello. “He just dumped the body of another little girl in that alley he was coming out of back there. Her little panties are in the trunk of this car.”

And yet the courts hadn't been able to convict. The search of the trunk had been ruled illegal because there had been no probable cause other than the word of Suzanne. The body had been found because Suzanne
invaded
Underwood's mind—clearly a case of forcing Underwood to testify against himself.

So Underwood had walked, only to kill again within weeks of his release. One of the twelve-year-old girls he raped and murdered was the only daughter of his lead attorney. It was like he was giving notice that this time around, he had better be put away.

The newspapers had crucified her, the police force, and Judge Carpenter. Part of the problem for Suzanne was that she was on the police payroll. Underwood's attorney argued successfully that as part of this force, she was bound by the same letter of the law as the officers. Had Underwood been Mirandized? No. Had he been advised his very
thoughts
were going to be used against him? No.

All at once the same newspapers that had thought Suzanne was an angel in disguise, thought she was a monster. Why would Suzanne take money for such a God-given talent? Why had she placed the investigation in jeopardy by jumping in before all the facts were known? Every time Suzanne picked up a copy of the
Omaha World Herald,
she felt a little of her life drain away.

Damn it! She hadn't
wanted
to take money for helping the police, but what was she supposed to do? She spent most of her time traveling across the country, using her skills to find missing persons, and aiding different police investigations. When she'd first started working for the police, she had refused all offers of payment—considering it a prostitution of her talents. But the day came when she realized she was working full-time and had nothing coming in each month except the small trust fund Miss Emily had established for her. She had to eat; for Christ's sake!

But they continued to crucify her. Suzanne didn't even stay in town for the trial of Baxter Underwood on the new murder charges. She sold Miss Emily's house, loaded up what possessions she could get in a Ryder truck, hooked her Olds to the truck, and slunk out of town, her tail between her legs. She hadn't even decided on a destination until the attendant at the Ryder place said he had to know where she was going before letting her have the truck. The people in line in front of her had been moving to Kansas City. She decided that was as good a place as any.

She had now been in Kansas City ten months. And she knew a grand total of six or seven people, who knew
her
well enough to let her alone. They thought of her only as an eccentric recluse, and knew nothing of her past history. She did research for a television conglomerate, working out of her home, away from people. Fortunately, between the sale of Miss Emily's house and the trust fund, she didn't have to make much money to get by.

Occasionally, a reporter would track her down, hoping for a story. When this happened she would just slam down the phone, or shut the door, insulating herself from any more misery.

She had read in the
Kansas City Star
that Baxter Underwood had been convicted for the deaths of the two twelve-year-old girls. That was all she wanted to know about that whole terrible time.

Jessie was right. She had been “hiding out” from the world. Maybe it was time to come out of hiding.

Chapter Eight

“Has a criminalist been notified yet?” Harry asked the young officer standing outside the office building on Brighton Avenue.

“Yes, sir. Everyone's been called, even the ME,” Patrolman Williams answered. “We were just up the street on traffic detail when these men hollered. We came over and secured the area.”

“Stanley Davis is the ME we wanted. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, sir. That's who the station said you requested. I believe they caught him in his car not far from here. We were told he'd be here in about fifteen minutes.”

“Good.” Harry glanced around at the men in hard hats. “What's the story? Who found the body and what were these men doing?”

“The building was going to be razed, sir,” Williams answered. “They were doing a final run-through when one of the men discovered the body—or what was left of it.”

“Pretty bad?”

“Yeah. Both legs and feet, both arms and hands—the head. Just like all the others.”

Hopefully not like all the others,
Harry thought.

“I assume your partner is in with the body?” Jim asked.

“Yes, sir. And we haven't allowed anyone in, but a Mr. Hollings wants to speak with someone as soon as possible. He wants to know what they should do about the explosives they have set.”

“Not yet,” Jim said. “Tell him we'll talk with him later. Right now, no one comes in who's not official. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry and Jim walked into the old office building and followed the trail of puke down the hallway to the open door.

“Looks like somebody wasn't prepared for what he found,” Jim said.

The second officer was standing just outside the door. By the looks of him, Harry guessed he had contributed to at least part of the mess in the hallway. Harry couldn't say much. The first young girl he had found butchered like this had emptied his own damn stomach. He nodded at the young man. “Go get some air, officer.”

Jim went first into the room, stepping carefully over the severed hand, checking behind the door before pushing it open. The scene was as gruesome as all the others had been. If this were a copycat killing, the perpetrator had a blood lust the same as Clark.

Body parts littered the small office room. Jim went over and looked down at the naked torso of what had once been a lovely feminine form. He knelt down, looking closely at the skin around the stomach and pubic area. He could see several evenly spaced dried splatters of what looked like semen. “Damn,” he swore softly.

“What is it?” Harry asked as he entered the room. “Don't tell me—”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Looks like.”

“Shit. Have you checked the head?” He looked around the room, spotting the decapitated head of the young girl sitting a few feet away, looking as though she had merely sunk through the floor, until only her head was showing. It was Clark's personal signature.

Harry went over and knelt beside the head. His stomach churned as he realized the significance of his find. He turned to his partner. “Makeup on an inch thick, right eyebrow shaved, then penciled in. Damn it all to hell!”

*   *   *

“I heard Amy call for me. That much I know,” Jessie said stubbornly. “I have never had a psychic experience that strong. And no, I didn't fall asleep in the car and dream it!”

Suzanne looked squarely at Jessie, squinting her eyes in mock anger. “Reading minds again, are we?”

Jessie tossed her long red hair. “Well, it looks like I have to do
something
to make you believe me!”

“All right. Start at the beginning and don't leave anything out. I guess it
is
rather presumptuous of me to insist
my
reading is the accurate one.” Suzanne pulled her legs up onto Miss Emily's worn couch, crossing them Indian-style to match Jessie's. “Maybe there is another explanation for what I saw.” As she said the words, she hoped the answer wasn't that Jessie heard Amy call out for her right before she died, and that she, herself, saw the actual killing.

“Okay, I'll tell you everything, but part of it doesn't make sense.” She spoke the words defensively, defying Suzanne to doubt her.

Suzanne felt small, petty. Who the hell did she think she was to be questioning this young girl's psychic ability? What must Jessie be thinking about her?

“I'm sorry, sweetie,” she said. “I can be arrogant and obnoxious, can't I?”

“Oh, you're all right,” Jessie said. “I know you're only trying to keep me from being hurt.”

Suzanne smiled. “Okay then, why don't you start at the top and tell me everything you can remember?”

“The first thing I heard was Amy's voice calling to me. I heard it as plain as day, really I did. She said, ‘Jessie, please. Please come for me!' That was all. But then I started getting a whole lot of images.” Jessie stopped talking, lost in remembering.

“Such as?” Suzanne gently prodded.

“Monkeys. I know it sounds weird, but I saw monkeys. There was a man with a big beard, and a bunch of people with their arms in the air—like someone was holding a gun on them.”

“Did it seem to you the monkeys and people were with Amy?”

Jessie shook her head. “I don't know. I couldn't tell. They were spinning around, flashing by so fast I was having a hard time making out the images.”

“What about the background? Do you remember anything at all about that?”

Jessie knitted her forehead in concentration. “The people with their hands in the air were sitting in seats—double seats of some kind, maybe like on an airplane.”

“Think back, Jessie. Was it nighttime or day?”

“Day, I think. Yes. Yes, I'm sure of it. There were clouds in the background. Big, fluffy clouds.”

“Close your eyes, Jessie. Concentrate hard and let your mind act as a camera. You want a wider view. The camera is going to pan around past the people with their arms in the air. Try to see a road sign, an address—maybe a landmark.”

Jessie's face contorted as she fought to bring the scenes back. After a few seconds her head snapped to the side as though she were listening for something. “There is a hill, a big hill that looks something like a bridge. I think the people are screaming. Their faces show … fright I think.” She hesitated again, then spoke. “That's it. That's all I can see; all I remember.”

“What about the monkeys, Jessie? Are they in cages? Maybe at the zoo? Try to bring it into focus. See all that you can possibly see.”

Again Jessie squeezed her eyes tightly shut, concentrating on the visions she had seen flashing by while she waited in the car.

“Slow them down, sweetie. Sometimes you have to slow them down.”

“An umbrella! One of the monkeys has a blue umbrella. And one is riding in a little red wagon!”

“Good, Jessie. It has to be some sort of a show. The monkeys are part of an act. Do you want to try an experiment?”

“Sure. I'm up for anything that will help us find Amy.”

“Okay, Jessie, I'm going to take your hands in mine. Then I want you to bring it all back. Relive that moment in the car when you heard Amy.” Suzanne reached over and took Jessie's hands. She felt a slight tingling run up her arms and across her neck. Good. They were connecting.

She had only tried this once before, with a young mother whose baby had been snatched from her at the mall. The woman had been so upset, so crazed with grief, that her ability as a witness was affected. Suzanne had held her hands and relived that terrible moment with her. However, Suzanne, with her keen eye for detail and cool detachment, had noticed things the mother had missed. They were able to find the kidnapper with the information Suzanne provided. So often her own particular type of psychic ability was helpful only after a death. It had been thrilling to bring that baby back to his mother's arms alive.

“Now, Jessie. You are sitting in my car waiting for me. What happened? Remember it all.”

Instantly, Suzanne heard the voice. “Jessie, please! Please come for me!”

Then other images began clicking through Suzanne's mind: monkeys, a man with a beard, people with their arms in the air. They flashed by in rapid succession, becoming almost a blur.

Suzanne took a long, deep breath. “Try to relax, Jessie. Breathe in as far as you can, then let it out slowly. Think of the images. Pretend they are a slide show, and you are slowing the pictures down so everyone can get a good look.”

Jessie took a long, shuddering breath. The images continued to click by rapidly. She felt her head spinning as a wave of nausea overtook her. She released Suzanne's hands, then flung herself down on the couch.

“I'm sorry. I don't feel so good.”

Suzanne grabbed on to Jessie's hands again. The vision came through clearly, and she watched as Amy dropped to the floor, then tried to get back on her feet. She could feel the dizziness as Amy's eyes looked around briefly, then closed as she slumped to the floor.

Instantly, Jessie sat back up. “It's gone. I was feeling so sick, but now I'm fine. Weird! Totally weird!”

“You were feeling Amy's sickness. I saw her. I felt it, too. Her head was spinning, then she must have blacked out. I'm almost certain that was all it was.”

“Did you see the monkeys? Did you?” Jessie demanded.

“Yes. I saw all that you told me about. But I couldn't slow them down. I don't understand that. I can almost always control the scenes—slow them down or telescope out for a broader view—but this time I couldn't.”

“Probably because
I
couldn't,” Jessie said. “You were getting into
my
mind while I was getting into Amy's. That's the difference. You can only see what I see, right?”

Suzanne thought a few seconds before answering, surprised at Jessie's insight. “Yes. Yes, I guess that's so. I would be limited to what you saw when you were in my car.”

“Could it be that Amy was dizzy and maybe blacking out, and that I saw the images flashing by real fast because that was what
she
was seeing and not what
I
was seeing at all? Could it?”

“Whoa! Slow down. Let me get this straight.” Suzanne paused, contemplating Jessie's words. “You're saying that just before Amy passed out, she saw monkeys, a bearded man, and people with their arms in the air?”