Saturday, June 22, 2019

Message from Beyond, Part Five

Back home I called Anita Sharpe. “What did you tell detective Diaz about me?”
            She laughed. “That you’re crazy. What did you think? But yeah, sometimes you’re right.”
            That was possibly the second-nicest thing she’d ever said to me. “What if I told her I know who the Left Foot Killer is, but all the evidence is, well, psychic?”
            “She—hell.” Sharpe groaned. “Okay, she might actually listen to you. Anyone here would give their own left foot to find that guy. It’d be worth a promotion, a book deal, and maybe a spot on Oprah.”
            All right. “Thanks. I’ll call her.”
            I left a message. Then I noticed that I had a message from my client. I called back.
            Cornell sounded exhausted, as if he’d been up all night. “Okay, the cops believe I didn’t kill Kristy Long—or anyone else. It helps that my dad and a whole lot of nurses saw me in the hospital all night. Are you getting anywhere?”
            Kristy Long was the name of the latest victim. We’d heard it on the radio driving back. “It’s what I told you. Vanessa is using Traci to speak. I think I know who the killer is, but it’s nothing I can prove. I’m going to stay on this, but I think I’ve done what you hired me for, so you’re off the hook. I’ll send you my report.” And my invoice.
            “Okay.” He sighed. “Thank you. Sorry for getting mad.”
            “No problem.”
            “And let me know what—happens? Okay?”
            “Sure thing.”
            Rachel brought me coffee. “Another happy customer?”
            “Under the circumstances. Thanks.” I sipped.
            “Not going to be a habit. Next cup’s on you.”
            My phone buzzed. Diaz. “Hang on—yes, detective! How’s your day going?”
            “Peachy. What have you got?”
            “Take a look at a bartender named Will at a bar called Killjoys. I don’t know his last name, but find out where he’s been for the last two years.” Since the murder before Kristy Long’s. 
            “Why the hell should I do that?” She sounded impatient. Most cops do.
            “Vanessa Scott feels he’s the killer.”
            “The ghost?” I could hear a snort of contempt. 
            “It’s not like you’re going to call her at the trial, okay? Just check the guy out.”
            “Fine. But if your next clue comes from a Ouija board, don’t bother calling me.” She hung up. 
            I sat back in my chair. “Our public servants are grateful for our assistance.”
            Rachel snorted at her desk. 

My phone buzzed in the middle of dinner—ravioli and salad. It was a text message. From Traci:
CHECK FACEBOOK.     
            Damn it. I showed it to Rachel. “Come on. Sorry about dinner—”
            She punched me. “There’s a serial killer on the loose!” Then she laughed. “I feel like I’m on TV.” 
            In the office I logged onto my profile. I had a private message from Vanessa:

Vanessa:He’s going to do it again. Tonight.

What the hell? I tried to imagine calling Diaz about this. So instead I sent a reply:

Me:How do you know?
Vanessa:He spent all day here. He just left. Traci’s asleep.
Me:He just killed someone last night. If it’s really him.
Vanessa:It’s him. I could finally see inside. When they were—doing it.
Me:Does Traci know?
Vanessa:No. Maybe. I don’t know.

Hell. I wouldn’t have believed this scenario if I’d seen it in a movie. And I’ve seen The Sixth Sense. Also Ghost. But movies don’t have to make sense. People do.

Me:Wake her up. Have her call me.

            No response. Rachel was leaning over my shoulder. “Now what? Dinner’s getting cold. But I don’t think I have an appetite.”
            “Me neither.” I sat back and crossed my arms. “Let’s see.”
            She pulled her chair over and sat down. Two minutes. Five. Then—
            “Mr. Jurgen?” Traci. “I just woke up from this dream. It was Vanessa, telling me to call you.”
            I made sure the phone was on speaker so Rachel could listen. “She was just on Facebook with me.”
            “Yeah . . . my laptop’s open on the bed. What’s going on?”
            What to say without spooking her—or making her hang up on me? “Where’s Will right now?”
            “He—he had to go to work. He’s there until 10. Why?”
            I glanced at Rachel. She nodded.
            “Vanessa thinks he’s the Left Foot Killer. The guy who murdered her.”
            “What? That’s crazy! I can’t . . .” Then she gasped. She was silent for a long time, and then we heard her coughing, hacking—throwing up. 
            “Oh my god.” Her voice was raspy. “I just—Vanessa—she told me. Just now. When she saw him today—oh my god . . .”
            “Traci, it’s Rachel.” She leaned in. “I felt it too. Once he came in. It’s not your fault.”
            “Oh god, oh god, oh god.” Traci managed a deep breath. “I just—walked into Killjoys a few weeks ago. After the accident. And Will was there, and I remembered he was nice. It was the first time since—since Vanessa, and I don’t think he remembered me, but I recognized him. And he was so nice about my foot. My—left foot.”
            “Okay.” I tried to sound reassuring. “We’ve already talked to the police about him. They’re checking into his background—and where he’s been for two years—”
            “He said he was in California, but he was always vague about where and what he was doing. I think—I don’t know. I don’t think I know anything right now.” She started to cry.
            He could have been out of the country—or in jail on some other charge. Back in Chicago at his old job, he might be making up for lost time.
            “Traci, it’s okay.” Rachel kept her voice calm and soothing. “Just relax. Try to rest. Don’t let Will in. Stay safe.”
            “Rachel’s right.” I looked at her. “We’ll take care of this. By the way, what’s Will’s last name?”

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