The Light Who Shines (22 page)

Bluebell Kildare: May 29, 2022, Red Ages

I pull my car into the visitor section of the Crimson Hollow
Fire Department. No sooner do Varg and I stroll through the administration door
than a smoking hot fireman walking in my direction asks, “Can I help you?”

If I were another woman, I would surely answer that with,
“I’m on fire. Can you lend me your hose?” However, since I am not another
woman, I pull out my badge and say, “I’m Inspector Kildare here to see Chief
Gerald Mack.” I sure wish I were another woman sometimes.

The fireman points down the hall. “Third door on the right.”

Varg and I continue down the hall and pass two more handsome
and well-built guys. This place is just crying for a fireman calendar! Chief
Mack sure keeps them in shape.

I restrain myself with all my virginal dignity and instead knock
calmly on the door that reads “Chief Gerald Mack” on the outside.

He calls out with a deep, smooth voice, “Come on in.”

I open the door and the first thing I see is a beautiful Dalmatian
sitting on a plaid dog bed under the window. The Dalmatian jumps up and starts
doing the doggy happy dance around Varg. Varg stands at my side and does a
little sniffing but remains aloof and dignified. I think he’s playing hard to
get. I open the door further and see a wide oak desk with an older gentleman
sitting behind it. His lanky form is obvious even as he sits in a casual and
relaxed position.

He smiles at me gently and gestures at the chair opposite
his desk. “Make yourself at home.”

I step in and sit down at his desk. Varg parks himself by my
side, and the Dalmatian lies at Varg’s feet, rolling over to show her belly.

“Hello, Chief Mack. I’m Inspector Kildare of the Supernatural
Homicide Investigation Unit.”

Chief Mack inclines his head slightly with a smile still on
his lips.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Chief Mack inclines his head slightly more and says, “Sure.”

So far Chief Mack has hardly moved, his face has been
nothing but kind, and his voice is smooth and rich as spiced rum. I am getting
a feeling about Chief Mack, and it’s a good one so far. He has medium brown
skin with curly black hair that is cut close and graying at the temples. The
age spots that speckle his face are all but eclipsed by the intelligence
shining out of his observing eyes.

“I understand you lead the committee that oversees the Sun
Flare Celebration Fireworks and Magic Show.”

Mack nods at this and watches me as I continue.

“I understand there was a talent interview on Phantom
Island. You were interviewing volunteers.”

Mack nods at this as well.

Clearly Mack is not going to chat it up, so I’d better ask
direct questions. “Did you do the interviews?”

Mack says in his slow as molasses cadence, “Well, I did the
early interviews, but I got called out on a big fire in the Warehouse District about
midway through. The rest of the committee finished.”

I pull out a photo of Jason, his missing person’s photo
which looks like a school photo of him, not an autopsy photo. I lay it on the
desk and push it toward Chief Mack. “Was this boy at the interview?”

Mack looks at the photo carefully and then looks up at me
with a troubled look. “Sure was.”

“What can you tell me about this boy?”

Chief Mack closes his eyes for a moment as though he’s
pulling a picture of the boy up in his mind, then says, “The boy was real
talented. He was selected for sure. But he never showed up to the practice
sessions.”

I look closely at Chief Mack and say, “Jason was kidnapped.
Your interview was the last anyone saw of him before he disappeared. He was
found murdered twenty-eight days later.”

A look of sadness passes over Chief Mack’s face in concert
with the feelings coming from inside him. Mack is a man full of great empathy
for the human race. I can feel that. That must be why he chose this job. Mack
looks at me past his furrowed eyebrows and says slowly, “I’m real sorry to hear
that. Truly, I am.”

He is sorry. Mack is feeling pain for the boy and
telegraphing it. I feel it swell up inside of me and pinch my chest tight.

“Did you see Jason leave with anyone?”

Mack looks thoughtful as he rubs his chest as though it feels
too tight. “No, Ma’am. He was still there when I left. The selected candidates
were held till after the interviews so we could give them the rundown.”

I can see the wheels turning in Mack’s head as he processes
everything I’ve said and then some. I have a feeling that as quiet and slow to
speak as Mack is, nothing gets past him. He is the sort of man who thinks a lot
but shares just a sliver of what he’s learned.

“How are the interviews conducted, and how is the location
secured?”

Mack thinks on this a minute, then replies, “Well, we do it
on Phantom Island because that’s where the fireworks are set off for the show. The
surrounding water provides some protection for those onshore. Because we’re are
dealing with an unknown quality in the candidates, we keep them on the mainland
and call them over the bridge one at a time.”

“Chief Mack, would you mind putting together a list of
everyone who was on the island, both those who attended the interview and those
who judged it? I’d like to know who was accepted and who was rejected. I’d also
like to know which committee members wanted Jason and which didn’t.”

Mack rubs his lips with his forefinger thoughtfully, then says,
“I sure can do that, but I can tell you now that all the committee members
wanted Jason. There’s no question about that.”

I stand and hand Chief Mack my card. Then I offer him my
hand.

He puts both of his long-fingered hands around mine, and I
feel the warm, callused strength envelop me. “You take care, Inspector Kildare.”
Chief Mack looks into my eyes, showing me he means it.

I smile. “Thank you, Chief Mack. You do the same.”

Chief Mack’s eyes remain deeply thoughtful and troubled as I
depart his office with Varg following behind me. The Dalmatian makes to follow
us too, but Mack gives a soft whistle and she turns around to sit on her bed
again.

I sure like Chief Mack. He’s good people. No doubt about
that.

Bluebell Kildare: May 29, 2022, Red Ages

When I arrive with Varg at the precinct, the clerk in the sallyport
informs me that I’m expected and escorts me to the interview area. Detective
Gambino is standing behind the one-way mirror watching Detective Schmidt
question Paul when I approach him.

Gambino turns at my arrival. “We had to wait for him to
sober up, so we only got started about twenty minutes ago.”

“How’s it going?” I ask as I watch Paul stare mutinously at
Detective Schmidt.

Gambino smiles wryly. “Not well. I wanted to observe, but
I’m going to have to take over.”

I watch for a few minutes as Detective Schmidt asks Paul if he
ran over Jason, and Paul responds by covering his eyes. Schmidt accuses Paul of
beating and starving the boy. He sneers at Paul and insinuates that Paul likes
young boys. Paul keeps his cuffed hands over his eyes through all the derision
and accusations, repeating, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.” Detective Schmidt
is getting nowhere with Paul, and his ploys are ridiculous.

I watch Gambino too. Disgust rolls off him, but I can’t tell
if it’s aimed at Paul or Schmidt. If I had to put money down, it would be on
the latter. His scowl deepens as the interview progresses.

I pull out my sixth sense and feel a significant amount of
hate in the room, but it’s not coming from Paul. Rather it is coming from
Detective Schmidt. I recoil from sensing him and sift through those feelings to
focus on the feelings emanating from Paul. Paul is scared out of his wits. He’s
pathetic, but there’s no evil in him. There is a great deal of guilt, though. I
don’t see how someone with a soul that mild could have tortured that boy in the
way he was tortured.

I pull in my sixth sense as Detective Schmidt exits the
interview room, slamming the door on his way out.

I look at Gambino and ask, “May I question him?”

Detective Schmidt snarls, “Like you can accomplish shit.”

Varg gives a low warning growl to Schmidt, baring his teeth.
I ignore Schmidt, briefly hoping he will make Varg angry enough to attack, but
then I chastise myself for the thought. Instead I look to Gambino. Gambino
inclines his head minutely. That’s all I need.

As I enter the interview room, I see Varg put his paws on
the mirror frame to keep an eye on me. I sit across from Paul and say in a soft,
warm voice as though I’m greeting an old friend, “Hello, Paul.”

Paul jerks in surprise, obviously expecting Schmidt again.
He lifts his eyes over his fists and lowers his hands. “Hello.”

“So,” I say conversationally, “I met your sister Agnes today.
She seems really nice and has a beautiful car.” As I’m speaking I open up my sixth
sense to feel Paul’s emotions. He lightens up at the mention of his sister and
nods. Encouraged by this, I continue. “So how long have you been living with
her?”

Paul’s mood shifts to sadness. “Since my wife Hannah died
about six years ago.”

I look Paul in the eyes and say in a soft, empathetic voice,
“I’m sorry to hear about your wife, Paul. How did she die?”

Paul nods, and I can see that he internalizes my empathy. He
takes a deep breath before speaking. “She died of breast cancer. It was
horrible to watch.”

I nod at him gently, still pouring as much of my empathy at
him as I can. It is easy to do as I can feel his pain, still terribly strong
after all of this time. “I know it was. I imagine that’s when the drinking
turned really bad.” I try to make it sound like it is totally reasonable to
become a drunk after watching that. And who am I to judge? Maybe it is totally
reasonable. Being a drunk isn’t a crime.

Paul looks down at his cuffed hands on the table and nods as
he fidgets with his fingernails.

“So,” I say, “your sister took you in and has been really
good to you even though you have a drinking problem.”

Paul nods again and waves of shame and guilt fill the air.

I continue speaking gently. “Here’s the thing, Paul. We know
that the car hit Jason. We have evidence from the car on Jason’s body. Paint
chips were found in his skin and the grill pattern of the car was marked on his
body. We also found pieces of the headlights and windshield glass smashed on
the ground and embedded in his forehead. So we have no doubt that the car hit
the boy.”

Paul quietly listens to this, picking at his cuticles but
not responding.

“Did you hit the boy with the car, Paul?”

Paul covers his eyes with his hands and shakes his head. He
says, “No, no, no!”

But I sense something when he covers his eyes. He is not
covering his eyes to block his view of me. He is not trying to hide from me. He
is covering his eyes to block out an image or a memory. His “no” isn’t really
an answer to me either. His “no” is self-denial.

I look at Paul and lay my hand gently on his shoulder,
patting it a few times. Then I play my hardest card yet. “Paul. It’s okay. I
understand. I know you didn’t do it.”

Paul uncovers his eyes and looks at me in confusion and disbelief.
He thinks he just got a “Get Out of Jail Free” card, and he is not sure what to
think of it. His feeling slowly shifts to one of shock and perplexed amazement.

I ignore him completely. Turning my back slightly, I pick up
my phone, pretending to dial Gambino. With a sigh into the phone, I say “Gambino,
the car is registered to Agnes. Paul says he didn’t do it, and I think I believe
him.” I pause a moment as though listening. Then I say, “I think he’s
protecting Agnes because she took care of him for so many years.” I pause again
and sense alarm coming from Paul. “Yep. All the evidence points to her. You’d
better go get her and lock her up for manslaughter.”

I have my head resolutely turned from Paul the whole time, but
I feel as his alarm escalates to utter and complete horror and guilt.

I flip the phone closed now and start to stand up, still not
looking at Paul. I hear him start to sob softly and whisper, “I did it. I
didn’t mean to do it. It was me. It wasn’t Agnes. Please don’t hurt Agnes.”

I turn around, feeling like a total heel, but I have to do
this. I affect a confused look and sit back down again. I keep my voice soft
and confused and reach my hand out across the table toward Paul without
touching him. I allow question and confusion to enter my voice. “Paul, what happened?”

Paul has his mouth covered with his hands as though he wants
to hold back the words, but he focuses on my outstretched hand, and he does
talk. He talks between his weeping with tears streaming from his eyes.

“I was drinking at the Cock and Bull Tap. Just before the
police shift started coming in, I ducked out to my car and took a nap. When I
woke up, I started to drive home, and as I left the alley this naked boy runs
out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop in time.”

Then Paul’s soft sobs turn into tormented, racking sobs. I
can hear the horror in his voice and feel it in his soul. Paul looks me in the
eyes, but he doesn’t see me. He sees the image he’s been trying to block out
the whole night. He is seeing the thing he wants to deny.

“I saw the boy’s face hit the windshield. I saw his eyes. He
was looking at me through the windshield. He looked straight at me and saw me
when he hit it. He was alive and had this hopeful look on his face.”

Paul pauses and looks at me and stresses this thing that is
causing him more horror and pain than anything else. “He was so full of
hope
.
Then the expression of hope went right out of his face when his head hit the
windshield. All I could see was blood smeared around his face and his eyes
staring at me. His dead eyes!”

Paul’s emotions are so powerful, they rip right through me—painfully.
I can feel everything that he’s feeling. He is an excellent projector, and as
luck would have it, I am an excellent receiver.

I could leave now, but I’m not done yet. I take several deep,
fortifying breaths and then lay my hands on Paul’s cuffed hands, holding them
gently. This is a man who feels great empathy and guilt and pain. He feels intensely,
and I need to use that to help him the little bit I can. But I have to hurt him
more to do it.

I say, “Paul, I know you didn’t mean it. But you know you
shouldn’t have been driving a car after drinking. You know your reflexes are
not right after drinking. If you had been sober, you might have stopped in
time.” Paul sobs harder, but I keep going because he needs to hear this. “This
boy is dead because of you. So we have to press charges because you deserve a strong
consequence for this. The boy will never get a chance at the rest of his life.
He will never get a chance to find and be with his Hannah.”

Paul nods at this as pain wracks his body and shakes his
shoulders. He keeps his head down and gasps for breath between sobs.

Then I finally say, “Paul, your wife doesn’t have a chance
at the rest of her life. This boy doesn’t have a chance at the rest of his
life. But Paul, you do. You have a chance at the rest of your life. And you
need to decide how to use it. Would your wife have wanted you to use it this
way? Drowning yourself in alcohol? Avoiding responsibility for your actions?
Spending your life dulling your pain?”

Paul shakes his head as he continues to weep. I can hardly
watch. But since I’m putting him through it, I have to watch it. Not only do I
watch it, but I feel it. I feel everything he’s feeling, and I am cutting him
deep. As a result, I cut myself just as deep.

With a thickened throat, I finish it. “Okay then. Detective
Gambino is going to come in and ask for a written confession. And then you need
to start thinking about the right way to live your life from now on. Good luck,
Paul.” Then I release his hands and leave quietly.

When I enter the observation room, I lean against the door
frame. The tears that I had been suppressing leak out slightly. I swipe them
away and take several deep breaths.

Gambino watches me thoughtfully in his quiet, intelligent
way. When my breathing calms down he says, “Excellent work, Inspector.”

At the same time, venomous hatred is spilling out of Schmidt
even more powerfully than before. He spits out, “That was sorry fucking work.
You are way too soft and pathetic. You only got a partial confession. What
about the kidnapping and torture?”

Gambino’s cheeks start to turn red, but he keeps his back to
Schmidt and raises one eyebrow to me.

I return the look squarely while ignoring Schmidt. “Paul
didn’t do the rest. I’m sure of it.”

Schmidt snickers at this. “What? Don’t want to blame your
lover boy? I saw you fondling him!”

Gambino ignores Schmidt and nods at me slightly. The telltale
splotches of red appear on his ears now, and a blood vessel in his temple
pulses as he grinds his teeth. He still keeps his gaze averted from Schmidt and
wrestles to remain composed. He finally turns to Schmidt, speaking through
tense lips that brook no argument. “Get a warrant for Agnes’ house and search
it. Bring two other officers with you. I want Franks to be one of them.”

Schmidt looks at me as if he just won a round and leaves
victorious.

After Schmidt slams the door, Gambino turns his grimacing
face to me. “I believe you, but we have to follow procedure, and I want other
officers there as a witness to what he does or doesn’t find. Franks is fair.”