(Psychic Visions 01) Tuesday's Child (5 page)

"Her name was Mandy Saxon," said Brandt abruptly. Her purse sat on the kitchen table, unopened and undisturbed, along with a briefcase of work she'd brought home. She'd been an accountant, a thirty-year-old junior member of a successful firm here in Portland, with her whole life ahead of her.

Now it was all behind her.

Stone-faced, the detectives watched two men bag and load the body onto the gurney before wheeling it out the door. Brandt would catch up with her at the morgue tomorrow.

Turning back, he caught sight of the coroner leaving.

"James, have you got a time of death?"

The grizzled coroner answered, "The best I can do at the moment, is between two and five." James shook his head. "I'll have more after the autopsy." The coroner walked out after smacking Adam's shoulder.

Turning back to the crime scene, Brandt watched as one of the CSI officers picked a tiny object off the carpet with tweezers. He waited until the item had been bagged and tagged.

"Stanley, what did you find?"

The man stood, holding the bag aloft for Brandt to see. "It appears to be a diamond or a zirconium. Have to wait until I get it back to the lab to know for sure."

Brandt stared at the tiny twinkling object. "Earring?" It could be the right size. He turned toward the open doorway. The stretcher had long gone. He'd have to wait to check what jewelry the victim wore.

He walked over to the open jewelry box on the dresser to rummage through the few quality items inside. All the settings appeared intact. None matched the stone.

Stanley, who'd worked alongside Kevin and his team for over a decade, joined him. "I'll run it through some tests. It's pretty small, probably part of a design."

Like a four leaf-clover design? Brandt couldn't remember the exact details of Ms. Blair's statement. Had the ring always been missing one jewel or only the last time she'd seen it? Had she even mentioned that detail? He'd have to wait until he got back to the office to be sure – but it felt right.

That waif's story sounded beyond wild, but that look in her eye had been real. Whatever demon drove her, she believed in it. Staring down at the tiny jewel, Brandt realized he couldn't discount it either.

"Okay, keep me posted."

Stanley nodded and headed back to his kit with the evidence bag.

It took another hour before the room emptied, leaving only the brutal evidence of death behind. Bloodstains perpetuated the smell of death. Vestiges of violence remained behind. Brandt swore he could almost see and hear the play-by-play of her death from the scene laid out before him.

He didn't have psychic abilities in the normal sense, still, like many of his coworkers, he had a strong intuition. Whether it had developed through his years of police work or through his long friendship with Stefan, didn't matter. He'd learned a long time ago to listen to it.

And right now, it was screaming at him.

2:20 pm

Kevin Bresson pulled into the station parking lot. Lunch was over and the place was packed as usual. Around the back of the building, he found a spot and parked. "Home sweet home," he said to Adam, who was sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

"If you say so."

Kevin glanced over at him. "Can't be cynical at your age. Come on, you haven't been on the force long enough for that. Give it a decade or two like me – then you've earned the right to be sour."

Adam got out and closed the door of the black SUV. He waited while Kevin grabbed his bag before walking to the rear entrance.

"I'm not being cynical, exactly. But it's a little hard to stay positive when you come from scenes like that one."

Kevin's normally stern face darkened. "I know what you mean."

Adam held the door open for him. "Do you think Brandt is right? That there's a serial killer working here?"

Kevin's pace never slowed as he headed for the elevator that would take them to their third floor offices. "I don't know. I've only seen some of the evidence. It would take more to convince me fully. Still, he has got a couple of valid arguments. Too many to discount his theory."

"He thinks this is another one."

"And that's possible. We'll work on it the same as every other case, and either he'll pull it for his list or he won't. We have enough work to do without keeping tabs on what he's up to."

"Right."

Kevin entered the waiting elevator with Adam on his heels. He was tired and fed up. The last thing he wanted was for Brandt to be correct and that a serial killer had been operating under their noses for decades. Just as the door was about to shut, a yell went up.

Kevin stopped the doors from closing long enough for Dillon Hathaway to get on.

"Thanks Kevin."

Dillon grinned that affable smile that always pissed Kevin right off.

"I hear you caught another bad one this morning. Let me know if you need any of my expertise to close this for you."

Kevin stiffened. Just because the 'kid' had a couple of college degrees didn't make him better than the veterans on the force. Now if Dillon had some experience to go with that piece of paper then people might be more inclined to listen. As it was, Dillon, in his late twenties, had only about six months of experience. Kevin wondered why he hadn't gone into business. He had that wheeling dealing kind of attitude and dressed the part too. He'd have done well.

Covertly, he studied Dillon's designer suit and lavender shirt. No wonder the guys in the department laughed at him. Although, it was his insufferable know-it-all attitude that made everyone want to kick his ass.

Adam wouldn't stay quiet. Kevin shot him a warning look, but it was too late.

"I think we can handle it. Other people, beside you, know how to do their jobs, you know."

Grinning, Dillon put his hands out in front of him in exaggerated supplication. "Hey, no problem, Adam. Just wanted to let you know that you can call on me any time. But I understand pride. So just trundle along in your usual way."

Kevin clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes. He did take pride in the number of cases he'd closed over the years. But no matter how many he solved or how many assholes he put behind bars, there were always a dozen more ready to take their place. If Brandt was right, they were in trouble. A serial killer with the skills to stay undetected for decades was just bad news – for everyone.

But working with Brandt was a different story than asking this young upstart for help. Brandt might be new to the department, but Kevin respected the man – unlike Dillon. Brandt was a straight up kind of guy who you could count on in a tight spot. What made working with him hard was his special assignment status. Not that he played the maverick card, but he worked with his own agenda.

Kevin wasn't sure what Brandt did all day exactly, only that he showed up for their meetings and any crime scenes that fit the parameters he was searching for. Cushy job if you could get it. As long as he stayed out of Kevin's way then he could work on all the task force preparations he wanted to – no harm done.

The elevator opened. Kevin, already focused on his job at hand, pushed all worries of Detective Brandt Sutherland from his mind.

3:45 pm

S
am hit the next rut hard, bouncing across it before she had a chance to maneuver her truck to the left. Her driveway had more potholes and grooves than drivable surface – a free bonus with the cheap rent. Her little pickup shook hard with the next hit and never had a chance to stop trembling before it bounced again.

Sam grimaced. She'd soon be black and blue just from the trip home. Great, more bruises. As if she needed more pain. Turning the last corner, she leaned forward to see her favorite view.

The tree line opened to the full valley and lake. Glittering water glistened for miles. She lived for this moment. The hills and mountains in the horizon bled into wonderful shades of blue and the trees...the greens and yellows, an oil canvas of joy. She smiled. This vista sustained her soul as food never could.

Parking the truck, Sam hopped out. Off to the left she could see her small cabin nestled just far enough back from the shore to give a front yard. She realized once again how blessed she was to have been given a chance to live there. A perfect place to stop running.

When she'd found it, the owners – an older couple – hadn't wanted to rent it out. She'd been in dire straits and once they'd sensed that, their attitude had changed.

Sam appreciated their change of heart. Life had dished out a couple of bad months. She winced. Who could talk in terms of months? Her life had been a cesspool for years.

The sun twinkled overhead. She smiled at the sky. Opening the driver's door, she started to hop back in when pain lashed through her. Black tentacles reached inside her skull and clutched her brain, dropping her to her knees.

She cried out, her hands cradling her temple. She doubled over, rocking back and forth, as darkness filled her mind. Her chest constricted. She struggled to breathe. Then she started to panic.

Just before she lost control, the curtain of blackness ripped aside. Sam breathed hard, struggling with the new images. They weren't of her truck or of the woods around her.

She stood outside a coffee shop in an area she didn't recognize. The only familiar thing came from behind her. A feeling, a gaze, an energy. Comprehension hit her slowly. "No," she cried, her hands covering her eyes. Pain seared her heart as her mind finally understood. Nothing could stop the tears from welling up and tumbling down her cheeks.

The killer had just found another victim.

3:55 pm

Brandt preferred to gain information in a less formal way, yet his badge did loosen tongues. Or it had until Parksville. The rotund postal clerk hadn't recognized Sam's name until Brandt gave her a description. She'd clammed up immediately, to stare at him suspiciously. When he brought out his badge, she became even more belligerent – if possible.

"You can ask your questions over at the vet hospital as she works there part-time." She turned away to speak with another customer.

Dismissed, Brandt left – his curiosity aroused. He walked across the street to the Parksville Veterinarian Hospital and asked his questions there.

"Sorry, we don't give out personal information on our staff." The older woman was striking in her own way, except for the waves of protectiveness rolling off her. Odd, she too saw him as the enemy. Not an unusual reaction from the drug runners and hookers on the streets, but from someone who looked more at home dishing out apple pie and lemonade – very strange.

Brandt turned his badge her way.

She raised one eyebrow, yet didn't relax. Instead, she held out her hand. Brandt passed over his badge and watched as she wrote down the information before passing it back.

"Now, can you provide me with her address, please?" he said in his most official voice.

She appeared to consider his words. What required consideration he couldn't begin to understand. "Excuse me," he snapped. "Does she work here or not?"

"Yes, that's true. She does." The dragon smiled as if happy to be able to answer him.

"Good. I
need
her address and her phone number." Using his well-honed eagle eye, he stared her down.

To no effect.

"I don't think she has a phone." She assessed him again, with that same calculating look of his grandmother. "Why the interest?"

"It's personal, ma'am." Brandt had been thinking to save Samantha unnecessary questions about the police looking for her. Then he saw her knowing glance and groaned. Heat flooded his face.

The older woman smiled.

Brandt shuffled his feet as if still in high school himself.

Her smile widened.

Shit. Brandt couldn't believe it. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and tried to regain control of the wayward conversation.

"Police business," he clarified, hoping to get this conversation back on the right direction.

After another long look, the dragon, as if realizing he couldn't be put off, walked toward the desk, wrote something on a small scratch pad, and held it out to him. "Here you go – her address. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have to take care of our customers." She motioned to several people waiting behind him. "Hello Mrs. Caruthers. What's the problem with Prissy?"

Brandt snatched up the paper and strode through the front glass doors. Once outside, he glanced down at the address.

"Shit." She'd given him the same PO Box address he already had. Technically, she'd done what he'd asked, while avoiding giving him what he needed.

"Is there a problem, sir?" A competent-looking older man approached him. "I'm Dr. Wascott. This is my office. Maybe I can help you?"