Mind to Mind: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (9 page)

She said, "Okay. But I
came in here to tell you ..." She again found her area of interest
on the graphic and again pointed it out to me. "I believe this is a
highway sign."

I shot it a closely focused look. "You mean
a—?"

"A route marker. I believe the numerals are
one-five- zero. It is repeated several times."

“
Highway 150?”

"Yes. I know it well. Goes through my
favorite place in all the world. Ojai."

I said, "That's—hell, that's..."

"In the hills above
Ventura, yes."

My excitement was growing.
"What's his name, uh ...?"

"Krishnamurti."

"That's the one! He has a place there, a
retreat or—"

"Yes, I've been there," she told me. "I even
met Krishnamurti, shortly before he died."

Alison went on telling me about her meeting
with the respected mystic, but I really was not listening to her
now. My head was starting to burst with a swirl of kaleidoscoping
visual patterns, and I knew that I was hooked on this case, locked
into it for good or for bad.

Worse, it seemed that Jane Doe was locked
onto me. Mind to mind, as it were. And she was painting like crazy
in my right cerebral hemisphere.

Chapter Twelve: Of Shapes and
Patterns

Alison called in and
arranged for someone to cover for her at the hospital for the day.
We worked on Jane's graphic until ten o'clock. One of the things we
discovered was that the "ideas" presented in this strange form of
writing were not only rendered in reverse image but were also in a
sort of, reverse contrast, if that makes any sense—somewhat like a
photo negative. I tried some computer enhancement on selected
trial areas of the graph and that helped a bit, but it was damned
slow going.

The large problem was that there was no
linear sense of movement in the "scenes," if you can call them
that. There was no logic to the spatial separation of events. Like,
if you take a comic strip and cut it up into frames, then remove
the borders from the frames and mix them all together without the
speech balloons into a disorganized montage, it would be a bit
difficult to recapture the cartoonist's original idea. Then if you
add to that montage some dream sequences or flashbacks or
whatever, the picture really gets jumbled.

I felt that I was working with something of
that nature.

Add to that, then, the problem I was having
with Jane in real time. I kept getting these color bursts in the
head, which I took to be continuing communication from wherever,
and it was very distracting.

I decided that the best
way to tackle the job, from the crypto-analytical point of view,
would be to assign each element of the montage a computer key,
then try some reassemblies with a random-number generator and look
for correspondences, but I really did not want to put that kind of
time into the puzzle at this point.

You see, certain elements
had emerged from the jumble—recognizable elements—and I was
experiencing a strong compulsion to pursue those elements. Like,
faces in the crowd. Oh, yes. Many faces were buried in that
kaleidoscope of images. Mine was there. Alison's was. Jim Cochran
was there. All entirely recognizable when the contrasts were
worked out. There was an interesting group portrait in there too.
Sort of a family shot. Starring Jim and Georgia Cochran and Vicky
Victoria.

Alison, of course, had never had occasion to
meet Cochran's family. She was positive that Jane Doe had never
seen them, either. And she agreed with me that Vicky looked an
awful lot like a young Jane Doe, even in this computer-graphics
rendering.

So we elected to leave the
crypto-analysis for a more leisurely moment, and we sallied forth
into the real world of space and real time. I have to say, though,
that it took me a few minutes to reorient to that world. It all
seemed different now, somehow. Shapes and patterns took on new
meanings, the depth perception was just a bit off, colors seemed
more vivid. Time and motion seemed a bit out of whack, too, not
entirely synchronized in the usual manner. I asked Alison if she
was experiencing the same problem, but she apparently was not
because she did not seem to understand the question.

At any rate, I did not
immediately trust myself behind the wheel of a car. I also did not
trust another driver behind the wheel of my Maserati. So I stalled
a little, walked around the car several times checking the tires
and bumpers and lights and so forth until the commonsense reality
was back in place in my head. Then we took off for Hollywood, both
of us in the Maserati.

I had a copy of the
computer graphics sealed in a manila envelope as my "passport" into
the Cochran household. I did not expect that Jim would be home;
hoped that he would not. It was Vicky Victoria that I was
interested in. I was hoping for a few minutes alone with her. And I
wanted Alison to see her in the flesh.

It worked out just fine.
The Cochran home is in the Hollywood hills, up by the reservoir.
Nice place. The homes in this area don't look all that great from
the street side because the exposure is to the rear; the yard is
back there, the view is back there, therefore the actual "front" of
the house is back there. You don't see a lot from the street
approach. The lots are rather narrow, the houses therefore closely
side by side. But half of Jim's lot was terraced hillside. He was a
pretty good handyman, so he did a lot of improvements on his own.
Built his own swimming pool and spa, had a nice little play area
for the kids on the terrace.

Georgia was working in a
small flower garden back there. A little boy of about eight
answered our ring and took us through. He was
"Manuel-Manuel"—Manuel being Spanish for Immanuel, which means "God
is with us." He told us that himself, in transit from the front
door to the back. This little boy was Latino. He had a withered
left arm and walked with a sort of crabbing gait, the result of an
also less-than-whole left leg.

I had told Alison that the children were
adopted, to properly prepare her for the meeting. She caught my
eye as we followed along behind the slow but enthusiastic lead of
Manuel-Manuel and whispered to me, "These are good people."

I nodded silent agreement
with that. It does take, I'm sure, a somewhat different
"commonsense notion" of values to adopt a physically handicapped
child. I mean, when it happens to you with your own, then I guess
you just swallow hard and try to make the best of a heartbreaking
situation. But to take on someone else's heartbreak ... well, yes,
that presupposed a rather uncommon approach to the value system.
And I guess I knew then why I had instantly liked Georgia Cochran,
why I'd always had a special feeling for her husband
too.

I introduced the women
without going into Alison's background, and I lied a little as to
the nature of our visit. I do that sometimes when a little lie
seems appropriate. I placed the manila envelope on a patio table
and explained that we were passing nearby the neighborhood, decided
to leave the package for Jim rather than trying to track him down
at work.

Georgia seemed to buy
that, smiled at Alison, said, "Oh, yes, I recognize the name now.
You're the psychologist for ... that poor girl."

She insisted on refreshing us. We decided on
iced tea, and Georgia went inside to attend to that.

All this time Vicky
Victoria has been silently watching us from atop a small sliding
board on the terrace. She is holding a large book, open on her
lap. As soon as Georgia goes inside the house, Vicky slides on down
and comes over to join us. Alison and I are seated at the patio
table. Vicky carefully deposits the book on the table and moves
around behind to perch on my lap.

I catch the expression on
Alison's face as she is inspecting this little squirt. She is
obviously "taken" by what Cochran himself has described as the
"uncanny resemblance" to Jane Doe. I can see it in Alison's eyes,
the recognition, the wonderment, as she says, "Well, I see that
you two are old friends."

Vicky Victoria apparently
has no comment to that. She just sits there on my lap, sort of
cuddling.

I smile past her shiny
little head at Alison, reply, "We just met last night. Well, sort
of met. We met with the eyes. Right, Vicky?"

This is a small ten-year-old. Dainty, all
girl. Very soulful eyes. She places a hand on mine, just sort of
rests it there, swivels her head to jolt me with very close
eye-to-eye contact, leans over to place a soft kiss on Alison's
cheek.

Alison is strongly affected by that. The
eyes contract and the lips tremble just a bit before she says,
"That was very sweet. Thank you, Vicky."

Vicky Victoria scoots off my lap and goes
inside the house.

I comment to Alison, "Some kid, huh?"

"Uh-huh. Such a loving
little thing."

Manuel-Manuel tells us, "Not always. She
gets very angry sometimes." He is sitting at Alison's feet, rolling
a toy car on her leg.

She shows me a quick smile, says to Manuel:
"Sometimes anger is just love in disguise."

Manuel replies, "Mom says it's frustration.
I don't take it personally."

This kid has verbal ability surpassing that
of some teenagers.

Alison gives me a pursed-lip look, scratches
Manuel's head, tells him, "Mom is pretty smart. So are you. Just
hang in there, guy."

Georgia reappears with a pitcher of iced
tea, Vicky close behind carrying a tray of glasses. Everybody gets
some. The kids join us at the table.

Georgia apologizes, "I hope decaf is
okay."

Alison and I agree that decaf is just fine,
and Alison adds, "I had enough caffeine for breakfast to last me
all day."

Manuel announces that he
had enough oatmeal for breakfast to last him the rest of his
life.

We all laugh about that—Vicky and Manuel,
too, joining in, then Vicky slides her tea over and finds her way
back onto my lap.

Georgia smiles at me and says, "I think
you've made a conquest."

"You have a beautiful family," Alison
volunteers, almost wistfully. "So loving. But come clean with this
career girl now; is it always this great?"

"It is," Georgia replies, smiling and
nodding her head for emphasis. "I was a career girl, too, once. And
I have no regrets."

"What did you do?" Alison inquires with
genuine interest.

"I was an actress," Georgia says. She laughs
as she adds, "I'm utterly destroyed that you haven't recognized
me."

Vicky Victoria has an arm
under my coat. I can feel the little hand on my back. I am
beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.

Manuel-Manuel is saying,
"She was a soap star. Didn't you ever watch
Begin the Dawn
? I didn't. I wasn't
born. But you were."

Alison replies, "Gosh, I
... never saw much daytime TV."

And I am thinking it is time to leave.

I lift Vicky Victoria off my lap and deposit
her in her own chair, kiss her on top the head, gruffly tell her,
"Check you later, kid. See that your dad gets his package."

Georgia walks us to our
car, leaving the kids behind. Alison again comments on "the
beautiful family," then adds, "Vicky is simply precious. Such a
quiet little thing."

Then Georgia hits us with
the bomb. "She's aphasic," she tells us with about as much emotion
as it would take to tell us she's blue-eyed. "It's congenital. But
she manages to get her ideas across, most emphatically
sometimes."

Alison and I get into the car and drive
away.

Not a word is spoken until we are back to
the Hollywood Freeway and streaking south. Then my eyes lock onto
Alison's haunted ones in the rearview mirror and I say, very
quietly, "Well, kiss my ass."

Chapter Thirteen:
i.e.

The L.A. County Morgue is in a sizable
building sharing the grounds of the county hospital. A lot goes on
there, other than storage for homeless corpses. The coroner is
there, the forensic medicine people are there. For a county this
size, a full-blown bureaucracy is housed there. But it still feels
like a morgue, a house of the dead. Not the sort of place to list
as a tourist attraction. And you can't just walk in there and shop
for bodies, which is why I had Alison at my elbow. Her credentials
dissolved the red tape and passed us on through to the cold-storage
area.

But something was awry in this bureaucracy.
The attendant evidently rolled open the wrong drawer. This "Jane
Doe" was about fifty years old and black. The guy double-checked
the tag on the toe, consulted his list, muttered something under
his breath, went to another drawer. The Jane Doe on that slab
looked like the remains of a bag lady—about seventy, terribly
wasted.

The only other Jane Doe
locker was empty. The attendant stood there for a, long moment
studying his list, then took us back to the office and consulted
another list. Then he picked up a telephone and consulted a list
with someone somewhere else.

Finally he sighed, showed
Alison a tired smile, said, "There's a screw-up somewhere. I'll
have to run this down. Would you like to check back later this
afternoon?"

Alison told him, "She was here at three
o'clock this morning. I called and confirmed it."

The guy said, "Well, yeah,
she's here now, too, according to the records. I just don't know
where, exactly."