Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 (9 page)

After Denise and McKenna died, there didn’t seem much point to music anymore.

During that first visit, Phelps settled on the front edge of the wing chair. I sat on the couch. We had to turn our heads to look at each other. We each faced a side of the coffee table, little more now than a receptacle for my debris: a dozen empty bottles of Summit beer, a glass, emerald-green ashtray stuffed with a bloom of short, bent Winstons, and, open but facedown, a book of poems by W.H. Auden. The marks on the table from McKenna’s crayons looked like fading confetti amid the debris.

Lewis stayed on his feet, perusing the few details of my life that were on display. He shuffled past the bookcases, the bloodless kitchen, and the urban view out my front window. But he stopped at the photographs on top of the walnut-colored piano, my shrine to Denise and McKenna: half a dozen photographs in frames amid McKenna’s drawings and Denise’s handmade pottery. Who they were and what they were.

To me.

Phelps rested his elbows on his thighs. His folded hands hung down into the empty space between his knees.

“We appreciate your help in this matter. And nothing sounds crazy to me, Mr. Enright. I’ve been on the force long enough to know that anything that might help us solve a crime is worth checking out.”

My mouth opened as I began to understand. “Was the body there? Where I said it would be?”

The detective pushed his lips together and nodded.

It was in that nod that my life changed. What I’d seen in my mind had not been a dream or an illusion. It had been a view of reality. A reality beyond my own.

More than a memory of a dream.

More a dream of someone else’s memory.

Icarus.

That’s what they are calling him now. I saw it in a headline in the newspaper after the third death. The media always need a catchy name for everything murderous. The Green River Killer. Jack the Ripper. The Boston Strangler. Son of Sam. They need the name and the fancy graphic, the Pavlovian trademarks they flash on the screen to draw in viewers to the latest gruesome details.

Now it’s Icarus.

I named him.

I’ve been reading Auden lately and came across his poem “Musée des Beaux Arts.” In it he considers the cold-hearted indifference of daily life to the tragedy befalling others all around us. And it struck deep into my heart. It was all I’d been feeling since the bridge collapsed. Since my life collapsed onto the muddy banks and into the muddy waters of the Mississippi.

Daedalus, the story goes, had constructed wings of feathers attached with wax for himself and his son, Icarus, so they could escape imprisonment. Daedalus had warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun, but, caught up in the glory of his own good fortune, Icarus ignored his father’s advice. The wax melted, the feathers came off, and Icarus plunged into the sea.

Auden considered the indifference of those who might have seen the fall of Icarus, an indifference I see every day of my life:

. . . how everything turns away

Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may

Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

I’d mentioned this to Detective Phelps in a vain attempt to explain the indifference to my tragedy that emanates from the world around me. The indifference that infuriates me. The indifference that makes me want to shake them. To shout at them. To show them my hell.

But I guess he only took away the image of Icarus falling.

So now the killer is Icarus.

And once again the cops and the media have gotten it wrong.

Icarus the mythological character falls.

Icarus the murderer does not.

In that first meeting, after Phelps had confirmed what I had seen—confirmed my psychic ability—I began to feel sick. My head dropped between my knees.

Phelps quickly kneeled by my side. With a gentle push, he helped me sit upright again. “Take some deep breaths.”

I did as I was told, swallowing down slow waves of bile as they rose in my throat. After I assured him I was better, Phelps returned to his chair.

He pulled a notepad and pen out of his inside coat pocket, flipped the notepad open, and clicked the pen. “You told the dispatcher that you saw the man in a dream, is that correct?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a dream. I was awake. I’d just woken up and this image popped into my head of a man in a Twins jersey facedown on the rocks.”

“Did you see anything else?”

I tried to revive the picture, but my mind was racing. “I . . . like what?”

“Anything. Anything unusual.”

I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I probably saw what you guys found. But I did notice that his wrists may have been tied at some point. There were lines of blood where whatever had bound them had cut through the skin.”

“Do you know what might have been used? Handcuffs? A rope? A cord of some kind?”

“No idea.”

“How did you know it was the Short Line Bridge?”

“I used to bike a lot around here. I’m a professor—or was—at the U and I’d go biking over lunch. The paths go everywhere. If I wasn’t on sabbatical I’d probably bike to work.”

“A professor of what?”

“Music.”

Phelps nodded as if that had relevance. Then he frowned.

“Have you had visions like this before?”

“No. Never.”

I had nothing to hide.

For several days after the first vision, I fought sleep. Drifted off at times, but never for more than a minute or two. And I never woke to the horror of a new image. A new body.

But one week to the day after the first vision, I failed.

I fought sleep and failed.

And the horror returned.

The second one:

The view is from above, looking down on West River Road, a twisty two-lane parkway that skirts the Mississippi like a shadow and runs directly beneath the Washington Avenue Bridge, the two-level link between the East and West Banks of the University of Minnesota. The lower deck bears cars, the upper deck students, either on foot or on bikes.

The fallen radiance of a whitish-blue streetlight adds a high-definition vividness to the scene below the bridge. To the body facedown on the centerline of the road. To a pair of blue jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt mostly hidden by a navy blue backpack that is still strung from his shoulders. To a baseball cap lying upside down in a pool of blood that has settled in the nearest tire depression in the asphalt. To the wind-blown leaves that tumble down the road, some already mired in the ripening blood. To the arms that stick out from the body like dead branches. To the dark lines that surround the wrists like black tourniquets.

I wake again with my arms over my head in a broken halo, my legs splayed, my back aching, my head turned to the side.

3:28 A.M.

Phelps answers on the third ring. I tell him what I have seen.

By noon, Phelps and Lewis were back in my concrete room. The body was where I had said it would be.

I gave them the same answers as in the first interview.

Then Lewis piped up.

“Do you have a job?” he said.

I looked up at him. He stood near the piano again, his arms folded across his chest like Mr. Clean.

“I told you before. I’m on extended leave. A grief sabbatical, you might say. Since the accident I’ve been having . . . coping issues.” I took a long drag on my cigarette. My hand shook.

“Get a good night’s sleep last night?” It carried an undercurrent of mockery.

I glared at him. “I fight sleep, Detective. I wasn’t born with these bags under my eyes.”

I could feel Phelps staring at me. He began nodding. His lips puffed out as he pushed them together.

Lewis took a long, deep breath. “Did you know the victims you saw in your dreams?”

“They weren’t dreams.” I couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “But no, I didn’t. Are you going to get another search warrant?”

Phelps put his hands up as if to repel an unseen enemy. “No, no. We’re all done with that. We trust you, Mr. Enright, but we don’t understand how you do it.”

I fought tears. “Join the crowd.”

Phelps pushed down on both knees and rose to his feet. “I think that’s enough, then. Thank you again for helping us with these cases.”

I didn’t get up. They saw themselves out.

It took me six months to begin to live again.

Not live.

Function.

Barely.

Like an old car left out in the brutal, sub-zero cold. The winter cold that only added to my paralysis. My hibernation. My dislocation.

Coming out only long enough to see my shadow.

To leave the suburbs.

To leave my dreams.

To come to the ruins.

From that first meeting:

“Where were you last night, Mr. Enright?”

It was Lewis. He was leaning against the piano, his arms folded. His tone implied a different question.

“Do you think I did it?”

“We have to check all avenues,” Phelps said. I began to see their roles. It was the detective version of good cop/bad cop. A cheap interrogation trick. Something out of the movies.

Still, I became worried.

Paranoid.

They weren’t convinced of my innocence yet.

I looked at Phelps when I answered. I couldn’t keep the sense of pleading out of my voice. The cheap interrogation trick was working. “I was here. All night.”

“Is there a Mrs. Enright who can vouch for that?” It was Lewis again.

I met his gaze as he blocked my view of the shrine on top of the piano. My throat tightened as the tears began to well in my eyes. “You’re standing in front of what is left of Mrs. Enright.”

Lewis glanced back at the pictures.

“She and my daughter were killed in the bridge collapse. There’s no one left to vouch for me.” I couldn’t say anything more. My throat clenched as the tears advanced.

Phelps cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Enright.” He took a deep breath.

I held my hands to my face, fighting back the tears, battling for composure.

For the ten thousandth time.

Phelps must have signaled Lewis, because they moved to the door at the same time. After a moment I followed them. They stepped outside and Phelps turned to me. “Thank you, Mr. Enright. We appreciate your help with this case. And we’re sorry for your loss. If we have any more questions, can we call you?”

“Yes, of course.” I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Sorry.”

“No need to be. Thank you again, sir.” Phelps fingered a contact card out of an inside pocket of his suit coat and handed it to me. “If something like this happens again, call me. Day or night. Okay?”

“I don’t want it to happen again.”

“No, but if it does . . .”

I closed my eyes and nodded.

Phelps and Lewis returned to their car. Lewis never said a word, but as he climbed into the black Ford Taurus, his eyes kept coming back to me. Even as they drove away.

It’s more than a shrine.

More than a memorial to them or to their memories.

It IS them.

All that I have left.

Phelps and Lewis were both back by one that first day.

“I hope we’re not bothering you, Mr. Enright,” Phelps said breezily, ever the good detective. His broad upper lip spread into a smile but still hid his teeth.

Lewis stood behind him on the stoop, his cold blue eyes telling me that his role hadn’t changed either. “Had any more visions?”

I met his cynical gaze. “No. What do you want?”

Lewis stepped forward and stuffed a piece of paper into my hand. “We’ve got a warrant to search the premises,” he said as he shouldered past me.

“Strictly routine,” said Phelps, still smiling.

“What are you looking for?”

Lewis answered from behind me. “Evidence.” A dozen cops who had hidden themselves from view converged on my door and flooded the house. Phelps took me by the elbow and led me to the couch.

I fought the urge to panic. Whether I had something to hide or not, the police invading my home rattled me. Heavy footsteps thumped the floor above me. Drawers slid open and slammed shut. Orders were shouted up and down the stairs. The whole place seemed to groan under the onslaught. I’d seen movies where evidence had been planted, and that paranoia began to infect me.

“I have nothing to hide,” I said to Phelps as he sat again on the front edge of the green wing chair. “They’re not going to find anything.”

Phelps held up his hands to calm me. “It’s okay. I believe you. But we have to do this. Obviously, most people aren’t psychic, so we have to verify that you weren’t involved in any way. The information you gave us was so specific that we have to check you out. Between you and me, I hope we leave empty-handed.”

I was distracted by a cop who was reaching for the pictures on top of the piano. Attempting to remove the shrine.

My vision frayed.

Pixilated.

I jumped to my feet.

Fear and rage.

Rage at the cops.

At the bridge.

At life.

At death.

At Icarus.

Phelps anticipated my next move and grabbed my arms.

“Calm down, Professor.” He looked at the cop. “It’s okay, Rob. Just leave it.”

Rob shrugged and moved to a bookshelf.

Phelps settled me back onto the sofa.

He kept his hand on my back as the sobs echoed through me.

“I don’t want anyone to touch them anymore,” I said, forcing out words swollen by the tears. “Not EMTs. Not medical examiners. Not cops. I want them to rest in peace.”

The search was over an hour later. As Phelps had hoped, and as I’d known they would, they left empty-handed.

Much to Lewis’s dismay.

Once again, he didn’t say anything to me as he left.

The third one:

The bridge deck has maroon railings. Maroon streetlamps with drooping heads—drooping as if bowed in prayer—spilling lonely pools of light onto the pavement. Two bike lanes in the middle, two pedestrian lanes on the sides. Twenty feet wide at the most.