The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries (48 page)

No one stirred.

“Does anyone here have a gray room, or knows someone who does?”

Heads shook all around. Murex stepped back.

Grandmaison said, “We’ll begin by debriefing on the overnight target. Who wants to start?”

A man stood and began reciting from a black binder notebook. “My perceptions of the target were of a tall spidery latticelike structure situated in a wide flat area.”

“Good. Next?”

“My perceptions of the target suggest an oil derrick on a land platform—”

Grandmaison interrupted, “Stop. How many times do I have to drill this into you guys? Describe, do not identify. Premature target identification will get you into trouble every time.”

“Sorry. Target was metallic, vertical, man-made, and I got strong sensory impressions of cross-braces and oil smells.”

“Probably associational noise from the derrick concept. Next!”

As the class went around the room, they described structures ranging from a NASA shuttle on its launch pad to high-voltage power line transmission towers.

Murex whispered to Knuckles, “They’re all over the map.”

When the last student was done, Grandmaison rolled up a portable overhead projector.

“Target 2004/0013 is very challenging because of the tendency of the viewer’s conscious mind to force a familiar identification. Hence, a class will bring back similar descriptions, dimensionals and other data, but will often lean toward different interpretations, usually biased by personal knowledge or analytic overlay.”

Grandmaison clicked a switch. The Eiffel Tower appeared on the screen – a white sheet nailed to the wall behind him.

A woman gasped, “No one got it!”

“On the contrary. Most of you got it. The Eiffel Tower is structurally similar to an oil derrick or a electrical transmission tower, and because it also functions as a TV and radio broadcasting antenna, those of you who are sensitive to energetics will perceive it that way. Who described a Shuttle on its pad? You decoded the Eiffel Tower and its elevator as a gantry structure and its elevator. Good signal acquisition. Not so good decoding.”

The class seemed impressed. Murex was not.

“How do they know he’s not throwing up a picture to match what they get?” he whispered to Knuckles.

“Why were they getting basically the same stuff?” Knuckles countered.

“Okay!” Grandmaison announced. “Ten minute comfort break.”

The class made for the house.

A woman walked up to Murex and Knuckles, saying, “If you guys need help with your case, I’m a professional spirit communicator.”

When Murex hesitated, Knuckles took the card. “We’ll keep you in mind, Miss . . . Carter.”

“No problem!”

Grandmaison drifted over, grinning. “Not bad for only three days’ training.”

Murex asked, “Your class didn’t seem to react when I flashed Doom’s photo.”

“The RV community is exploding. I teach people. My former Stargate colleagues teach other people. We don’t all keep track of each other.”

Bob Knuckles asked, “Where were you the night John Doom checked into the Plaza?”

“Here. Home. We were selecting targets for next week’s ERV class in LA.”

Knuckles nodded. “You teach all over the country?”

“And local classes in between.”

“We’ve determined that Mr Doom was dead approximately four days before he checked in to the hotel,” Ray Murex said suddenly.

Trey Grandmaison didn’t skip a beat, although a vein in his forehead suddenly leaped to life. “You have your work cut out for you. And so have I. Excuse me.”

The class was filing back in. The break over, Grandmaison wrote a set of coordinates on the chalkboard and said, “Okay, this is your next target. Go to it.”

The class gathered up sleeping bags, futons and the like and spread them out at scattered places on the floor.

“Target is to be viewed in present time. You have one hour. View until the data starts to repeat or the signal line runs dark. Don’t interpret. And no snoring.”

Grandmaison led them out, saying they needed absolute quiet.

“Where’s Mrs G?” asked Knuckles.

“Shopping.”

“I have a hypothetical question.”

“Shoot.”

“Would it be possible, in your professional opinion, to remote view Hell? Assuming of course that there is such a place?”

Grandmaison didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

Murex asked, “Are there any other RV instructors or schools in this area to your knowledge?”

“No. I’m the only one in New England. There were only a dozen or so people in the unit, and those who are teaching civilians are scattered around the country.”

“Would you know of any other gray room in the area other than yours or Doom’s?”

“I thought mine was the only one. I would suggest you look into other schools. I didn’t train this guy, but if he built a gray room, he’s a very serious viewer.”

“How do I go about that?”

“Google,” smiled Trey Grandmaison.

On the ride back to Boston, Murex was very quiet while Knuckles cleaned his fingernails with a nailfile, carefully placing the scrapings in a napkin.

“Guy had survival training,” Knuckles said quietly.

“So?”

“So – he was ex-intelligence. Probably knows a lot of ways to kill a guy so that it looks like natural causes.”

“It still doesn’t fit.”

“No, it does not,” said Knuckles, looking at the business card that read
Beverly Carter, Spirit Communicator.
“If Grandmaison made that Hell tape, he’s a fabulous voice actor. Guy has a voice like a bullfrog.”

The next two days were bleak. The weather was bleak. Progress of the case was bleaker. The weatherman kept promising snow, but all the skies mustered up were flurries.

A forensic handwriting analysis of the hotel signature proved that John Doom had not checked himself into the Plaza. No known relatives or friends of John Doom could be found.

Trey Grandmaison’s military records revealed that he received a dishonorable discharge for psychological reasons in 1993. The records were sealed. Otherwise he checked out clean. No record anywhere.

On the third day, Bob Knuckles was trolling the net and came across a website advertising an on-line course called Tom Morrow’s Practical Remote Viewing. The instructor’s photo caused him to say, “What ho!”

Ray Murex took a look and said, “That’s John Doom.”

“Now we know what he does for a living. Time to give Miss Carter a buzz.”

“Why?”

Knuckles smiled broadly. “Why not?” He dialed a number.

“Miss Carter, this is Detective Knuckles. How are you? Good, I’m calling you rather than bother Mr Grandmaison. Do you keep your class assignments? You do? Good. If I read you a set of coordinates, could you identify them for me? Sure, I’ll hold.” To Murex, he said, “She’s getting her class notes. Hand me that TIRV business card, will you?”

Murex scaled it over.

“The numbers are 2006/0027 . . . You did! When? What did you get? Interesting. What did the class get? Really? Could you do me a big favor? Would it be possible to view those coordinates now? And call me back.”

Knuckles hung up. “She’s calling back in twenty minutes.”

“And?”

“Let’s see what she comes up with.”

Twenty minutes later. Knuckles took the call. He was on less than two minutes. “That’s very helpful. Thank you.”

Murex looked his question.

“She got a guy sitting at a desk. Dejected.”

“So?”

“So. You’re sitting at a desk looking pretty forlorn to me.”

“Oh, come off it!”

“She said the class worked those numbers Tuesday night. You interviewed Mr G. on Tuesday. They got the same thing then. A guy at a desk concentrating on something serious. Three students got a law-enforcement vibe. Looks like he tagged you. Why? Forget about whether RV really works or not. Just speculate with me: why would he do that?”

“Because he’s dirty.”

“Or knows more about Doom’s demise than he’ll let on,” Knuckles countered.

Murex sat up in his chair. “Let’s go at this from another angle. Trey Grandmaison is out of town all last week. That checked out. No holes. He comes back and finds a dead guy in his gray room. He’s gotta do something.”

“Wait a minute. What’s Doom doing there?”

“We’ll figure that part out later. But maybe Mrs G – Effie – is moonlighting.”

“So why does he stage the death with TIRV material?”

“He figures his airtight alibi makes it a perfect crime. What has he got to lose? Also, this gives him a direct pipeline into any investigation.”

“No. It points any investigation directly at him.”

“Right, also. If things get hot, he sees it coming. He can take steps.”

“How was Mrs G. when you talked to her?” asked Knuckles.

“Nervous. Showed signs of being severely short on sleep too. Seemed worried about the impact of bad publicity on the business.”

“But Mr G. isn’t, is he? Why not? Think motive.”

Murex gave it some thought. “Maybe he wants the publicity.”

“Why would he want bad publicity?”

“Maybe in his business bad publicity is good publicity. Or any publicity is better than none.”

“Student RV’s Hell and drops dead,” Knuckles shot back. “How is that good?”

Murex made a face. “Maybe to the whackos who take these classes, it’ll sound like the ultimate thrill ride.”

“Maybe his business is failing and he’s teaching Doom privately. Discovers he’s an incognito rival. Offs him somehow and sets it all up.”

“Possible. But why is he so cooperative?”

“He’s ex-Army Intelligence. Versed in psychological operations. Being cooperative and up front could be a way of deflecting suspicion.”

“Which he actually wants in a perverted way.”

“Sure. It’s basic reverse psychology – mind games.” Knuckles leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “Try this: DOA Doom croaks. His teacher couldn’t find a way to get him back into his apartment – all those steps must have been too daunting – but checking him into a hotel was easier. Calls and makes reservations to boot.”

“Why not a motel?”

Knuckles shrugged. “Big hotel, easier to penetrate. Lot of people coming and going. No car directly involved. No license plate on record with the hotel. He fakes the tape because how else are the investigating parties going to know what Doom was supposedly RVing?”

The phone rang. Knuckles took it. “Yes? Yep. Yep. Good.” He hung up. “That was the lab. The paint chips found under Doom’s fingernails match the ones I scraped off Grandmaison’s gray room. Postive match. No question.”

Murex blinked, then remembered Knuckles cleaning his nails.

“Can we use that in court?”

“Won’t need to. We can get admissible paint samples later. The question is, did Doom die naturally, or was he snuffed?”

“And if so, who did it?”

“That’s easy. Mrs G.”

“Too many unknowns to assume that.” Pressing a button on his desk, Murex picked up the telephone. He dialed the number off the TIRV card and said, “Mrs Grandmaison? This is detective Ray Murex down at Boston Homicide. Sorry to wake you. I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind. Were you in Richmond during the week your husband taught that class? You were? No reason. Except this: lab tests have proven conclusively that John Doom did not expire in his own gray room. We only know of one other in this area. That one belongs to your husband. Well, until we can rule something out, we have to consider it ruled in. So we’ll be in touch.” Murex hung up.

Knuckles looked at him. “Why did you do that?”

“Sometimes, you light a fuse. Other times you’re just setting fire to a string. Let’s see which it is.”

The call came from Trey Grandmaison within the hour.

“I’d love to help you guys close out this investigation,” he offered. His tone was fluttery.

“Because we can’t rule your gray room out of the picture?” said Murex.

“No. Because my wife is becoming upset with your questions. Look, I offered to help before. Why don’t I personally RV John Doom’s last hours and see what I come up with? Maybe that will give your investigation a fresh direction.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Murex said dryly.

“I’ll assign the coords and get back to you with whatever data I get.”

“Appreciate that.”

Knuckles looked at Murex. “This could go either way.”

Hours later, the promised pages came sliding out of the office fax machine. Knuckles read it first.

“This is interesting. Seems dead Mr Doom liked to frequent bondage and domination rooms. According to this, he died in someone’s ‘dungeon’ and his mistress relocated his inconvenient remains, using his RV hobby as a cover—”

“Forget it!” Murex snapped angrily. He slid the TIRV business card over.