(Psychic Visions 01) Tuesday's Child (2 page)

Knowing that some asshole had killed again, filled her heart with sorrow and slowed her steps. Several fat raindrops splattered her face – the joys of living along coastal Oregon.

The weather didn't bother her; the crowds and noise did. And the smell. Exhaust, sweat, and perfumes mixed to become something only a city dweller could love. No, the outlying community of Parksville suited her perfectly. The trip into Portland was only twenty minutes on a good day.

Strangers with umbrellas shouldered past her. Would any of them believe her if she told them about the murders she'd witnessed, experienced? She'd faced distrust and skepticism with every foster family. As a precocious six-year-old, she'd told her foster mother's coworker to look after her son better. She'd been punished at the time. But when the boy had drowned in his backyard pool, Sam had really suffered. She'd been dumped back into the system and the label 'odd' had been added to her file. Her
gift
scared people.

Today, she had no choice. She had to come here. She couldn't stand by and let this guy kill again. Still, it was a long shot to ask the police to believe her when she couldn't supply a time frame, a name, or even the location of victim or killer. She just didn't know.

She squared her shoulders. Hitched up her faded jeans. No more. Disbelief or not, she had to do something. She ran up the last few steps.

The interior of the station felt no less imposing. Twenty-foot ceilings lined with dark wood created a doomsday atmosphere. Great. She lined up and waited. When her turn arrived, she stepped to the counter.

The officer glanced at her. "Can I help you, miss?"

Wiping her damp palms on the front of her jeans, she took a deep breath and muttered, "Yes." She paused, eyeing him carefully. How could she tell the good cops from the bad ones?

The older-looking officer, his expression encouraging and steadfast, helped calm her nerves. Except her ability to judge people had never been good. Sam hesitated a moment longer before the words blurted out on their own accord. "I need to talk to someone about a murder."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Two murders." Even she recognized the apology in her voice.

His eyes widened.

Okay, she sounded like she had one screw loose. Still there wasn't any delicate way to approach this. She dropped her gaze to her tattered sneakers, almost hidden beneath her overly long pants.

"What murders, miss?" His voice, so kind and gentle, contrasted with the sharpness of his gaze.

Shifting, she glanced around. She didn't want to talk about this out in the open. The line of people started several feet behind her. Still... She leaned closer. "Please, I need to speak with someone in private."

She twisted the ribbing of her forest green sweater around her fingers – a response to the intensity of his gaze. Catching herself, she stilled, as if locked in space and time. Not so her stomach, which roiled in defiance. This had to happen now, or she'd never be able to force herself back again.

When he nodded, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Go take a seat. I'll contact someone."

Sam spun away and stumbled into the next person in the line behind her. Flushing with embarrassment, she apologized and retreated to a chair against the far wall. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face as she tried to calm her breathing. She'd made it this far. The rest...well...she could only hope it would be just as easy.

It wasn't.

"Okay. Let's go over this one more time." The no-nonsense officer sat across from her in the small office. His crew cut had just enough silver at the tips to make him distinguished-looking, accenting what she suspected would be a black and white attitude.

He scratched on the paper pad for a moment and frowned. He tossed his pen and opened a drawer to search for another one. "
Two
women have been murdered? You just don't know
who
?" He glanced from his notes to her, in inquiry.

She shook her head. "No, I don't."

"Right," he continued, staring at her. "You don't know by
whom
? You say one man killed both women, but you don't know that for
sure
? And you don't know
where
these women could be. Is that correct?"

Sam nodded again. Her fingers clenched together on her lap.

"Therefore these women,
if
they existed and
if
they were murdered, could have lived
anywhere
in the world –
right
?" He quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Right, but..."

"Just answer the question. Could these women and their supposed killer be, for example, in England?"

Her shoulders sagged. Why couldn't anything be easy? "Theoretically, yes. But I'm not––"

"I have plenty enough dead women right here in Portland to go after. Why would I waste time working on a 'possible two more' that could have happened anywhere? Not only that. You're saying that one woman was strangled and then stabbed and the other one was just stabbed. That's not normal. Killers tend to stick to the same method for all their kills." His annoyance pinned her in place. "Prove that a crime has happened."

The detective tilted his head back, his arms gestured widely. "Show me a body, either here or somewhere else, and I'll be happy to contact law enforcement for that area. Until then...if you don't have anything else, why don't we call it a day?" He waved in the direction of the door.

Sam stared at the irate officer, her initial optimism long gone. The problem was, everything he'd said was true. She didn't have anything concrete to tell him. She'd hoped the description of the ring would help validate her story. Frustration fueled her irritation. Both boiled over.

"It's because of my abilities that I know these murders occurred close-by here." Sam poked her finger toward the floor. "I'm not strong enough to pick up images from so far away. These
are
your cases – you just need to identify them."

"How?" he snarled. "You've given me no physical descriptions, no names, and no location markers. How can I identify them?"

All the fight slipped down her back and drained out her toes. She studied him for a long moment. How could she get through to him? "The first woman will be in your case files and for this morning's victim...chances are it hasn't been called in yet. I'd hoped that knowing there was more than one victim would make you take notice." She paused. "Can't you use the ring to track the killer down?" She leaned closer. "He
will
kill again, you know. You
will
remember this conversation later."

He shrugged, his eyes darting to the open doorway. He was obviously wishing she'd disappear, preferably forever.

Sam assessed his face and found only disbelief. Her shoulders sagged. It wasn't his fault. He'd reacted as she'd expected. Skeptical and derisive. Sam flipped her braid over her back and rose. She'd tried. There'd be no help here.

"Fine. I don't have any proof, and I didn't think you'd believe me, but...well, I had to try."

She straightened her back, thanked the glowering officer, and escaped into the hallway. Ahead, the front glass wall glinted with bouncing sunlight. Freedom beckoned. Her pace quickened. By the time she'd rounded the corner and caught sight of the front entrance, she'd broken into a half run.

11:10 am

Detective Brandt Sutherland smiled at the young rookie. "Thanks, Jennie, I appreciate this."

Pink bloomed across her features, accenting her age, as did the ponytail high on the back of her head. Did they still wear those in school? As a new recruit, her arrival last week had caused quite a stir, her fresh innocence a joy to the department full of jaded detectives.

"Sure, any time." She gave him a shy tilt of her lips at first, which then turned into a real grin before she hurried back to her desk. Still in the hallway, Brandt opened the file and glanced at the photos. His stomach dropped. His mood plummeted further as he checked out the other pictures in the stack. Another one. Damn it.

A commotion down the hall caught his attention. Glancing up, he frowned. What was that? A small bundle of moving clothing and flying hair bolted toward him. Brandt jumped out of the way. His open file smashed against his chest, only to end up in her path anyway as the tiny woman dodged sideways in a last-ditch attempt to miss him.

"Easy does it. Watch where you're going." He reached out to steady her as she stumbled. His hand never quite connected as she slipped away like thin air.

Huge chocolate eyes, framed by long velvet lashes, flashed. "Excuse me," muttered the waif before she continued her sprint to the front door, her long braid streaming behind her.

"Wait," he shouted, but she'd gone, leaving Brandt with an impression of soft doe eyes – evocatively large, yet filled with unfathomable pain. Brandt felt like he'd just been kicked in the stomach – or lower. Mixed impressions from those eyes, flooded his mind. Frustration. Defeat. Pleading for help, but no longer expecting to receive any. Yet, he could have sworn he sensed steel running through her spine. Somewhere along the line, life had knocked her down, but not out. Never out.

He took several steps after her, only to watch her bolt out the front door.

Who the hell was she? He shook his head in bemusement. Two seconds and he'd felt enough for a psychological profile. Yeah, right. Still, how could anyone have that much torment going on and still function? Staring after her, he wished she hadn't escaped quite so fast. He didn't know what she needed or why, but surely he could have helped somehow.

His curiosity aroused, he walked into the office at the end of the hall, and studied the lone occupant. "Kevin, were you just talking to that young lady?"

"What young lady?" Detective Kevin Bresson looked up from his keyboard, his gray eyes confused and disoriented. Reaching up, he jerked on the knot of his tie.

"The tiny one that's all eyes."

Kevin's brows beetled together and then comprehension hit. "Oh, the skinny one." He shook his head and grimaced. "Jesus, I'd stay away from her, if I were you."

Brandt stared toward the front entrance, unable to forget her haunting image. Or his inclination to follow her. A compulsion he had trouble explaining even to himself. "Why?"

"The moon must be full or close to it – the wackos are coming out of the woodwork."

"She's nuts?" Brandt pulled back slightly, jarred by Kevin's comment. "No way."

"Yup, crazy as a bedbug." Kevin checked his desk calendar, pointed on today's date. "Look at that. I'm right. It is a full moon tonight."

Brandt readily admitted he didn't know much about the cosmos, still he'd have bet his last dollar there'd been sanity in those eyes. There'd also been a hint of desperation, as if she'd hit the end of her rope maybe, but at least she'd known it.

"So what did she want?" Brandt worked to keep the interest out of his voice.

Kevin tossed his pen down on the desk and leaned back. "She tried to tell me this crazy-ass story about waking up inside another woman while she was being murdered." Kevin snorted. "I've heard a lot of stories over the years, but that one topped my list."

Brandt straightened, stepped closer. "She's a psychic?" He didn't quite know how he felt about that.

Kevin shot him a disgusted frown. "If she is, she's not a very good one."

Brandt frowned. "Why? What did she have to say?"

"Something about a killer murdering
two
women.
Both
times, she says she witnessed the murders as they happened, from
inside
the dead women's bodies." Kevin shrugged as if to say
People, what can you do
? "Even odder, she says this killer used a different MO each time."

That was unusual, yet not unheard of. He only had to think of the animal he was hunting. If he was right about him, this guy constantly changed his methods.

"Did she offer any proof? Some way to identify the killer? Did she know who the women were?" At Kevin's shaking head, Brandt felt pity for the woman. He hadn't been here at this station for long and he didn’t hold a position that invited confidences – only, detectives were the same across the country. Some were good cops with limited imagination, some had too much imagination and had a hard time playing by the rules. Kevin appeared to be squarely on the side of the disbelievers and rule makers.

Brandt, well, he'd admittedly done more rule breaking than was probably good for him. Old-fashioned detective work did the job most times, but not always. And he didn't give a damn where the help came from, as long as it came. He couldn't resist asking, "Anything concrete?"

"Nope," Kevin answered with a superior half-smile. "I told you – lots of nothing."

Brandt stared out the hallway teeming with people. It had to be lunchtime. "Damn." Just before walking through the doorway, he turned back one last time. "Nothing useful?"