Psycho Killer, Part One

The young man was standing on balcony, barefoot. He shook his head, apparently speaking to someone inside the apartment. 

            Then he rose up, three feet, five feet. He waved his arms, as if struggling against—nothing. He kicked and squirmed in the air, and then he went over the side of the balcony and down, head first, dropping out of sight.

            The video stopped, and Steven DiTocco came back on my screen, with his wife Evelyn. “That’s from the security camera across the street,” DiTocco said, his voice hushed as Evelyn bit her lip next to him. “The police—they think Sean jumped somehow. But there’s no note, no reason for—”

            “Tell him about Brendan.” Evelyn nudged him.

            “I’m getting to that.” He took a breath. “My son’s friend Brendan was found in the apartment. Dead. Some kind of brain aneurysm, they said.”

            “It doesn’t make sense.” Evelyn shook her head. “None of it. I can’t . . .” She turned her face away.

            “This is just really strange,” DiTocco said, patting his wife’s shoulder. 

            They were in their 70s, and looked frail. Of course, losing a son will devastate you at any age.

            “We found you because you seem to handle cases like this.” DiTocco took another breath, and coughed. “We don’t expect miracles. We just want to know what happened to our son.”

            I picked up my coffee. Cases like this? Yeah, I do tend to attract cases that veer toward the supernatural, so I guess I’ve developed a reputation: Tom Jurgen, private detective of the paranormal. Who you gonna call?

            “I can certainly ask some questions,” I told them. “I can’t promise anything. I’ll need whatever you can give me about your son’s friends and work, and the name of the police detectives you’ve spoken to.”

            Evelyn went to put together everything she had while DiTocco and I discussed the financial details. After everything was done, I said I’d do my best and stay in touch. 

            They looked sad as we ended the call. I couldn’t blame them.

            Then I looked up as Rachel walked into the office we share.

            Rachel’s my girlfriend. Actually, she was my fiancée. She’s got red hair, hazelnut eyes, psychic powers—pretty much the complete package. And in two weeks we were going to be married. 

            She punched my shoulder before heading for her chair. “What are you looking at?”

            “You. My future wife.” I grinned. “Unless you’re having second thought.”

            “I can still change my mind.” She sat down. “Don’t delete your Tinder profile just yet.”

            “Heard from Georgeanne?”

“Yeah, she’s coming. How about your brother?”

I have a brother in California. I haven’t seen him in years, but we’re friendly. “Yeah. He’s checking out airlines.”

“And your mom?”

My mother is in assisted living. She drives her motorized chair like Vin Diesel in the Fast & Furiousflicks, but she’s got all her wits intact. “She wants to bring a date.” I rolled my eyes.

Rachel snorted. “Serious boyfriend? Good for her.” She’s met my mother a few times. I’d only met Rachel’s mother a few weeks ago. That dinner had been—interesting.

I glanced at my computer. “Hey, could you look at something for me?”

She sighed. “It better not be flower arrangements again.”

“No, take a look at this video. It’s for the case.”

She leaned over my shoulder as I played the video of Sean DiTocco going off the balcony. “I know you can’t usually pick up anything on a recorded video, but—”

Rachel shook her head. “Yeah, maybe if it was the original, not a file in an email. But I can’t sense anything from this. Except—wow.”

“Yeah.” I drank some coffee. “What do you think? Invisible monster? Psycho—what is it? Psychokinesis?”

She shrugged. “I’m just your standard issue psychic.” She turned toward her desk. “Did you talk to the shaman?”

“She says she’ll stick to a standard ritual after the actual ceremony. Hopefully your mom won’t be too shocked.”

“Or yours.”

An email came minutes later from Evelyn DiTocco, with a list of her son’s friends, his work address, and a copy of the police report. The first thing I did was call the detective who’d handled the investigation. I had to leave a message. I didn’t recognize his name, but I figured he’d probably know me. I have a certain reputation around the Chicago Police Department because I insist on telling the truth about the monsters and demons I run into. 

I scanned the list. Sean DiTocco had worked in marketing for a small pharmaceutical firm called Tior Pharma. There were several names of employees there, a few friends from college, but at the bottom was a female name: Casey Atkins. Evelyn had put “girlfriend” next to her name.

            I sighed. As a reporter, I hated calling survivors of tragedies, and as a P.I. it’s not much easier. But sometimes it has to be done. I punched Casey Atkins’ number into my phone.

“Ms. Atkins, my name is Tom Jurgen,” I said when she picked up. “I’m a private detective hired by Sean DiTocco’s parents. I’m sorry to intrude, but they hired me to look into the circumstances behind Sean’s—what happened to their son. Would it be possible to ask you a few questions? Or arrange to meet?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “They told me. What—what do you want to know?”

“You’ve seen the video?”

“Yes. It doesn’t—it makes no sense. He couldn’t have jumped. He had no reason to jump. We were—not exactly engaged, but it was going there. It’s just . . .” Her voice faded off. I waited, letting her pull herself together.

“I can’t talk right now,” she said after a moment. “I’m at work, and—it’s not good. Can we meet somewhere?”

We arranged to meet at a bar near her office—she worked in real estate—at 5:30. 

 

Casey Atkins, in her late 20s, had long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and wore a crisp blazer and blue slacks as she trudged into the bar of LaSalle Street at 5:45. “Sorry I’m late,” she muttered as she sank into the booth. “It’s hard to—focus, you know?’

            She ordered a vodka and tonic from a passing waitress. “I don’t know what to tell you.” She seemed resentful, reluctant, and impatient to get rid of me. “Sean wasn’t depressed or suicidal. Not at all. Maybe it’s all CGI? Could someone do that?”

            “It’s been examined.” The detective on the case, a man named Schwartz, had called me back in the afternoon. He was reasonably informative and only moderately hostile. The video didn’t have any evidence of tampering. No one had heard anything unusual from the apartment. Sean’s friend Brendan Robbins hadn’t been poisoned or overdosed, and neither of them had any significant amounts of drugs or alcohol in their bodies. 

Schwartz didn’t want to talk about the paranormal possibilities. “I’ve heard of you, Jurgen. You seem okay. That doesn’t mean I’m going to enable any of your fantasies about witches and monsters.” But he wished me luck before hanging up, which was nice of him, I thought. 

            “Then what can I tell you?” She sat back, crossing her arms. Annoyed.

            “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?” 

            Casey stared at me. “You mean an invisible gorilla? Or someone with an antigravity gun?”

            I actually once had a case with an invisible murderer. But I didn’t mention that. “Putting that aside. Anyone?”

She frowned, sipped her drink, and shook her head. “No. I just can’t think of anybody—I mean, Sean wasn’t perfect, but he was great, and everybody got along with him. It doesn’t seem like any of his friends would—do anything like this. Even if they could.”

“What about at work? Any office politics? Rivalries? Hidden secrets?”

For a moment her expression lightened. “It’s just marketing. They develop drugs for mental health. Depression, anxiety. Not exactly the cure for cancer. Ross’s working on some kind of a secret project, but half the scientists there think they’re on the verge of winning the Nobel Prize.”

“Ross—?” I remembered the name from Evelyn’s list of friends.

“Ross Holtz. He works in the lab, out in Skokie, but he’s in the downtown office a lot. They’re friends, I met him at some office things. Kind of weird, but he’s a scientist, you know?” She finished her drink and waved the waitress for another.

“What about Brendan?”

“Brendan?” She blinked and looked away. “I shouldn’t—he was a nice guy. You know? They were best friends forever. It doesn’t make sense that he would—die like that, right then.”

“Sometimes best friends have the deepest resentments,” I said.

Her drink came. “Maybe. I kind of thought he had a crush on me once. He hit on me one time, but that was before Sean and me were serious.”

I sipped my beer. “Look, I’ll be honest. I don’t know if I can do anything for Sean’s parents, but I have to look at everything. I’ve seen some pretty strange things in my time. Levitation, or whatever this is—it’s not even the weirdest thing I’ve heard of. If you can think of anything, even if it seems impossible, it could help.”

Casey squinted, thinking, then gulped her vodka tonic. “I wish. I’ll think about it, but right now—” She shook her head. “I still can’t get used to this.” She looked away from me, staring into the darkness.

I’d spent the afternoon trying to contact as many people on Evelyn DiTocco’s list as I could. Ross Holtz wasn’t on the list, so I had at least one new possible lead. Like I’d told Casey, I wasn’t very optimistic. But I had to try. 

 

At home Rachel was warming up leftover lasagna in the microwave. She’s a therapist at a small mental health clinic three days a week. Her psychic powers help, but it’s tough work sometimes. 

            “How was work, dear?” I leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek.

            She swatted me away. “All the partners want to talk about is the wedding, and that makes me have trouble concentrating when I’m talking to patients.” The microwave beeped. She prodded the lasagna with a finger. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”

            I agreed. We’d talked about just going down to city hall, but decided our parents would never forgive us. I got a beer for her and a bottle of water for me from the refrigerator. Then my phone buzzed.

            “Oh-oh.” I called at the caller. “Anemone.”

            Rachel rolled her eyes. 

I answered. “Hello, Anemone. How are things on your end of the vampire kingdom?”

            “Tom!” Anemone laughed. “Is it true? Until death do you part?”

            “It’s true, unless Rachel kills me before the wedding.”

            “Still a possibility,” Rachel said. 

            “Not unless I’m invited to that too. I will be there, lovers!”

            “Clifton Page is invited too. FYI.”

            “It will be delightful to see him. I’ll start shopping for a wedding gift right away.” She smacked her lips in a kissing sound, then hung up.

             Rachel set the lasagna on the table. “It was your idea.”

            “It seemed politically wise.” Anemone was a vampire. She was actually the Vampire Queen of half the city. Clifton Page was King of the other half. It was an arrangement I’d helped set up several years ago, in the aftermath of a wave of vampire attacks across Chicago sparked by a vamp from out of town. The king and queen helped keep the local vampires from marauding and creating chaos. In return, the city supplied them with a certain amount of fresh blood monthly to dull their appetite for human flesh. I was the liaison. It worked.

            “I suppose.” Rachel opened her beer. “As long as they don’t get too thirsty.”

            “I’ll have some crosses and stakes on hand. Hidden away behind the altar.” We were holding the ceremony on our building’s rooftop deck, after sunset to accommodate the vamps. Most of our friends knew the reason, but I wondered if I’d have to explain it to my side of the guest list.

            “After dinner,” Rachel said, spooning some lasagna on her plate, “I was thinking we could practice.”

            “The wedding? I think I have everything down—”

            “No, you idiot.” She reached across the table to punch my arm. “The honeymoon.”

            “Oh.” I cocked my head. “Did your mother have that talk with you?”

            “I learned it all on the streets,” she said, flipping back a strand of her red hair. “Wanna see if I got it right?”

            “Race you to finish eating,” I said.