I’m lying on a floor; smell
of dust and nylon fibres. There’s pain, but I haven’t worked out where it’s
coming from just yet. I can hear people moving, furniture shifting with them.
The brush of shoes on carpet, clothing fabric rustling. Open my eyes: it’s
dark. There’re lights but they’re all fuzzy, spots circled in focuslessness.
Someone looms, leans in. I can’t see their face, just a black halo around their
head. Light walks in waves and walls, wobbles. Now there are two of these dark faceless
angels, peering, coming close.
‘Jesus!’ says one of them.
‘What happened to his face...?’
Then
I wake up.
Raining
outside. Not heavy, but steady. The streetlight trickles against the walls. I
let my fingers unclench, feel the sheets de-pressurise between them. That boom,
boom, boom, is my heart - gone soon as I lift my head. Swing my legs overboard,
let my feet hit carpet. Deep breath. Dream. That’s all.
There’s
an echo’s ghost in the room with me; I wonder if the neighbours will complain
again. Red blinking light: message on the phone. 4.32am. Garbage truck
reverses, down in the street. Forget sleep. Call it a day and seize it...
I’m
outside, feel like crap. Dark skies and distant thunder - rain letting up.
Streets trickling with water, all the garbage washed clean. Cold wind makes me flinch
and I head downhill into town.
Police
on the phone: Carmody calling. Probably swallowed a gutful of pride to do that.
Nothing I’ve done – they need my help. Again. Last time, Carmody yelled ‘That’s
it! Forget this psychic crap! From now on, just straight-up police work!’
Something like that. But here we are again.
Am
I psychic? If you believe that sort of thing. I have a knack. Someone told me
that I have a “facility”, that I’m adept at reading body language, “micro-expressions”.
Whatever. Maybe it’s instinct, or that my brain makes weird connexions from
random data: I don’t try to analyse it too much. In case it goes away.
If
asked, I say that I simply have a low bullshit threshold. People lie - about
themselves, about others; to themselves, to anyone listening. They bolster
their confidence; they talk themselves into it; they put pressure on people;
they con and cajole. They leave the important bits out. I go through it all
like a blowtorch through tinfoil. I’m immune to falsehoods; bluff-proof. But
sure – if “psychic” floats your boat, let’s call it that. Sometimes I do; sometimes it’s my job.
I
get to the intersection outside police headquarters. Waiting for the crossing
light, the silver dawn slicing through the overcast, a guy in a heavy coat
bumps my arm with his elbow.
‘This
way, McKinley,’ he says. Taller than me, broader, with a close-cropped
bullet-head. Maxton. The new guy. He points to a waiting car, door open.
‘So,
the servants’ entrance?’
He
smirks. ‘Too much Press on this one,’ he says; ‘Need you here on the down-low.’
Inside,
the car is company-vehicle clean, anonymised and pine fresh. I’m a blot on the
upholstery. Wish I’d taken the time to shower.
Wipers
swish wet away from the glass. The police building rolls forward, monsters us,
moves by. A dark gaping maw swallows us into its belly...
Carmody’s
waiting in the corridor of the Records Department. Rumpled, balding, spectacle
frames from the 80s. He almost growls when he sees me. Jerking a thumb over his
shoulder he spits ‘Interview Room’ to Maxton.
‘What?’
I say cheerily: ‘no time for a coffee and some chit-chat?’
He
glowers poisonously at me and pulls his phone from his pocket. Maxton leads the
way.
The
room has a desk with three chairs and a dusty old video player on a rolling
frame with a monitor on top. Maxton hangs his coat and fiddles with the remotes
while I stare at a stack of files on the desktop. The TV hisses snow, then a
little green icon mutes it into silence.
‘So,
how do you like to do this?’ The remotes clatter into a heap next to the files.
‘Do
what?’ I say.
Maxton
rubs his head briskly and offers an open palm. ‘I mean, is there anything you
need to do to get ready? Meditate? Turn the lights off...?’
‘...Sacrifice
a goat?’ I finish for him. I drag out the nearest chair. ‘Play the videos. Let
me read. A coffee would be nice.’
Maxton
blinks. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘sure. I’ll let you get into it...’
An
hour-and-a-half later, I’m done. I’m swirling my plastic coffee cup around to
try and dissolve as much sugar as I can into the dregs. I’m stalling, because
I’d rather bill the City for two full hours than one-and-change. Maxton is
fast-forwarding through the filmed interviews, watching the jerky figures
spring and flicker across the screen. Suddenly though, I’ve had enough. The
bare white walls and the bad lighting with its incessant hum are starting to
make my teeth ache.
‘Right,’
I say, standing and pushing forward a folder, ‘that’s your man, this Reed guy.’
Maxton
boggles at me. ‘Reed? No way.’
I
stretch, rub my face and blink, trying to wake up. ‘Yes way. He’s your killer.’
I start getting ready to go.
Maxton
grabs the folder and leafs through it in lumps. ‘But why? I mean, sure, he
doesn’t have a watertight alibi for the attacks but, given his job and
lifestyle, that’s a hard call anyway. What makes you so certain?’
‘What
your boss pays me for – I know.’
‘What’s
his motive?’
I
wince. ‘This again? You guys are still with the “means, motive, opportunity”
crap? He has means and opportunity – he doesn’t need a motive. He does it because he likes it. He does it ... just because.’
‘But
he’s been completely forthright with us, helped us with our investigation...’
‘Yes
because, if he didn’t, he’d look exactly like what he is – guilty. He’s playing
you. He has you right where he wants you to be – convinced that he’s a nice
guy.’
‘But
why these people?’ Maxton’s on a roll, won’t let it alone, ‘what’s their
connexion? Why choose to attack them?’
I
sigh. ‘Maxton. This guy’s a burr. He’s covered in hooks just waiting to get
snagged on something. This guy? He bumps into Reed and doesn’t say “excuse me”.
This girl? He likes her hair colour. This one? It’s late and he’s got nothing
better to do. He’s a psycho Maxton;
whaddaya want from me?’
Maxton
leans forward, elbows on the table. His eyes are wide. He looks at me; he looks
at the files.
‘I
don’t know,’ he says, ‘Carmody’s not going to like this...’
‘Screw
Carmody. If he wanted me to make him feel good, I’d demand money up front.’
Maxton’s
up, grabs his coat. ‘Let’s go tell him the news...’
We
head down the corridor to the lift. The endless parade of carpet tiles, the
fluoro panels, the conditioned air, all make me feel thin and unreal. I can’t
tell what time it is. A couple of uniforms come out of the lift as we approach:
backlit, I can’t see their faces and their hats make black circles above their
heads – just like my dream angels. Maxton gestures to them. They smile and move
away.
The
lift doors bite home like a sideways mouth. I’m hoping I got this right.
Carmody hates my guts but he’s got to acknowledge that I get his guys to where
they’re needed. If I’m honest – and I’m always honest, at least to myself – I’d
help them without being paid, but starving in a gutter is not my idea of a career
prospect. My technique’s now honed, but I’ve paid for inexperience. One time,
early on, I stalled for time, figured I’d ratchet up some extra cash with the
Department. ‘I see a body of water,’ I said, playing mysterious. During the
delay that caused, the killer – Alvin
Lake – locked two girls in a Chevy and fed them through his scrap-yard metal
compactor. Like Reed, he had means and opportunity. Like Reed, his motive was
“just because”.
The
lift pings and the metal doors slide open. Maxton shoulders forward and I
stumble fuzzily in his wake. There are a lot of people here. No uniforms.
Cameras. The grey light of the outside day. Carmody wheeling around, his face
going red. Suddenly, Maxton’s got me in a bear hug, throwing me back into the
lift. Lights follow us, excited voices, before the steel lips snack them off.
‘Shit!’
spits Maxton. He stabs a button and we descend again. ‘Shit! What was I
thinking?’
‘Certainly
not “avoid the lobby”’ I contribute, rubbing my shoulder.
He
slumps against the wall. ‘Carmody’ll have my head for this,’ he groans.
I’m
suddenly very tired and far from caring. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘tell him it was my
fault; that I was grandstanding, trying to get my name in lights. He’ll buy
that.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.
You’ll still get a dressing-down, but at least you won’t get fired.’
Maxton
props his hands on his knees, lets his head hang down, gives it a shake.
‘Thanks
man,’ he says, ‘I owe you.’
‘Just
make sure Carmody pays me,’ I answer, ‘and we’re quits...’
Later
at home, the news sites on my laptop are buzzing. “City pays Psychic to track Blind-Man’s-Bluff Killer!”; “Cops Clutching
at Straws!”; “Detectives try Voodoo to catch Serial Killer!” My phone
starts to ring but I let the machine take care of things.
The
day wears on. The grey dawn passes into a grey night. There’s an open bottle of
wine in the fridge along with an old pizza. Towards nightfall, I break out the
iron, try to smarten-up a few shirts. I’m watching the news to see if they’re
using a recent photo of me - thankfully, the mug shot they drag out is about
eighteen months old. There’s a card game on tonight – gamblers don’t like
playing with guys they think can read their minds.
The
intercom chirps. ‘It’s Maxton’, blurs the voice at the other end. I buzz him
in. Shrugging on a crisp white shirt, I fold back the cuffs and open the door,
leaving it ajar. Soon, there’s movement in the corridor – the door swings wide.
It’s not Maxton who enters. It’s Reed.
He
leans on the door, closing it, panting from the stairs. He’s bleary, eyes
red-rimmed, breathing booze. Arms go “zizz” as he moves them: cheap nylon
jacket with “Security” across the back, dark squares on the upper arms and
breast where patches have been erased. Lost his job. Excellent.
He
pushes off the door, lurches into the room. I back around the kitchen bench. He
jingles as his boots stomp the floor – below his gut slings a wide belt with
steel rings dripping with things. Things like his gun. Handcuffs and capsicum
spray. He clunks down a two-thirds-empty fifth of bourbon on the counter top.
‘Bastard!’
he breathes dangerously. ‘Cost me my job! Why? Why me?’
I
walk slowly around the bench, hands raised, moving to the phone. ‘Look,’ I say,
‘you’re overwrought. Why don’t we take a breath and sort this out? Let’s call
someone who can help...’ I pick up the iron as I go.
He
pulls his gun, surprisingly quickly for someone in his state. I belt him on the
head with the iron. He goes down, whacking his jaw on the counter-top. I pound
his face a few more times for luck. Prodding clumsily with socked feet, I push
the gun back into his holster, taking time to get it right. I grab some paper
towel, take The Knife from the wall where it hangs, openly on a magnetic strip
over the sink. Sadly, saying good-bye, I ease the handle into Reed’s nerveless
palm.
Now
the hard part. I use the cuff of my shirt to cover my hand as I unclip the
capsicum spray from his belt. I take a deep breath, give myself a good hit to
the face...
*****
I’m
lying on a floor; smell of dust and nylon fibres. There’s pain, but I haven’t
worked out where it’s coming from just yet. I can hear people moving, furniture
shifting with them. The brush of shoes on carpet, clothing fabric rustling.
Open my eyes: it’s dark. There’re lights but they’re all fuzzy, spots circled
in focuslessness. Someone looms, leans in. I can’t see their face, just a black
halo around their head. Light walks in waves and walls, wobbles. Now there are
two of these dark faceless angels, peering, coming close.
‘Jesus!’
says one of them. ‘What happened to his face?’
‘Back
off!’ Another voice chimes in, approaching stench of dead-beach aftershave.
Maxton.
‘Hang
in there, McKinley,’ he says, ‘paramedics are on the way.’ He lifts my
shoulders, cradles me.
‘Carmody’s
pissed,’ he tells me, wiping away the tears streaming down my face. ‘He thinks
you’re going to sue the City for us leading this psycho straight to you...’
I
cough suddenly. I’m laughing inside because Maxton still thinks he pushed the button for the wrong
floor. ‘Just make sure...he pays me...what he owes me,’ I croak.
‘You’re
one in a million,’ Maxton smiles, then the paramedics are upon us.
They
carry me away. I drift off to the Dreamlands. I feel cheated – this kill was
unsatisfying. But it was practical; housekeeping; shoring-up and making-safe.
Business before pleasure. The world opens up with possibilities - those dark
angels have missed me again...
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