The Violet Crow (5 page)

“That's what I thought. Apparently I made the mistake of overestimating the intelligence of the police force. I guess I've been watching too much TV. Don't worry. You'll be OK. Psychics are fakes. You say something, and they expand on it. Hey, maybe we can hire him to work on your little
thingie
…”

Icky pretended to pout, so Alison would give him a hug. She did, but she couldn't resist teasing at the same time. “Just be yourself. If he tries to read your mind, it'll drive him crazy.”

“I love you too,” said Icky glumly, breaking free. “What are we going to do?”

“Well, I still have my paper to write. To do that, I have to figure out how to finish up this project. I want to make sure I get extra credit for this course. It'd be good if we could figure out a way to help the police without them knowing it's us. Or maybe I should just ask the professor for an extension.”

“I vote for the extension. No way I'm getting mixed up with the cops.”

Alison gave Icky a warm kiss, followed by a short, painful squeeze of the testicles—and a parting shot: “You're the one who needs the extension—lover boy.”

Chapter 10

Bruno lived in a trailer out in the pines. It was set in a small clearing off a dirt road with no name. There was no house number and no mail service (he maintained a post office box in nearby Tabernacle). Propane heat. Well water. Septic system. Electricity from the county backed up by a Honda generator. And, of course, satellite TV, a hot tub, and cell phone service. A redneck Shangri-La.

This was his fortress against the welter of people's thoughts and emotions. The bereaved relatives, beleaguered cops, and the skeptical press. It was a dangerous business. When bad guys find out the cops are getting clues from a psychic, they tend to come after the psychic. No reason to make it easy for the bad guys to find him.

Bruno lived with Maggie, a beautiful two-year-old German Shepherd cross with an intelligent face. She had a thick coat and an impressive tail that she carried aloft like a sail. Bruno liked to talk to her and watch her changing facial expressions as she listened. She'd furrow her brow and cock her ears, clearly working hard to make out what he was saying: an admirable—and unusual—characteristic, in his view. Maggie would respond with a remarkable vocabulary of her own consisting of barks, whines, grunts, growls, licks, and pokes with her snout.

He carefully hung up his business suit and dressed for work. Boxer shorts and a tattered old Princeton sweatshirt. “Ah yes. Good old Princeton,” Bruno hummed to himself.

Maggie whined in response and Bruno stopped humming.

Things seemed to be going OK, he reflected. Chief Black seemed like a good guy. The borscht belt
shtick
seemed to be working when he needed it. But now there was this dead girl with no name, and his ex-wife's sister's kid, Mimi, had been the one who found the body.

“Maggie, you know I sure hope we can solve this thing without talking to her. Because I really don't want to see Judy Cohen or her husband, Bill McRae—that
shmuck
—again.”

Maggie's whines grew more persistent, and Bruno let her run outside. “Just stay away from that Carmine,” he joked, referring to the neighbor's Australian Cattle Dog and Shepherd cross. Carmine's owners, the Terranovas, lived on the other side of the bog. Bruno didn't know them well, but they seemed to be authentic Pineys, judging from the light blue rusted-out 1974 Cadillac with official “classic car” license plates that was always parked in their driveway.

He heard Maggie barking excitedly. Had she run into that raccoon again? Then it stopped. Must've scared it off.

Now he was ready. He darkened the room and sat in his special chair. Not the one where he ate, read, and watched TV, but the other one, which was reserved for work. He opened the plastic evidence bag and took out a few strands of the girl's hair. He cradled them in the palm of his hand. He could barely sense that they were even there. With his other hand, he touched the hair with his fingertips, cleared his mind and waited.

Nothing came to him.

He shifted his position to imitate the posture he'd assumed in the meeting house, slumped over to the right. He pictured her soulless expression as he'd seen it at the morgue.

But all he felt was cold. Emptiness. Nothing.

“Like Adam,” Bruno thought. It wasn't a vision, but a memory of something he'd read. He got up and turned on the light. On his bookshelf was a copy of
Kabbalah for the Complete Shmegegge
that he'd just picked up at the used bookstore. He sat in his all-purpose chair and looked for the chapter he'd been reading the other night. There it was. The Golem. Nothing like the one in Tolkien. The Golem was actually a figure from the Middle Ages. Made from clay by the Rabbi of Prague to protect the Jews from anti-Semites in Europe. The Rabbi traced the Hebrew word for truth, EMET, on his forehead to bring the Golem to life. When the anti-Semites tried to start a pogrom, the giant Golem routed them with ease. That scared the Emperor and he begged the Rabbi to deactivate the Golem. The Rabbi graciously complied by crossing out the first letter, leaving MET, which means death. That was a good story.

Reading further, Bruno spotted a passage that described how Adam was a Golem before God breathed life into him. That was it. That was the feeling he got from the girl. He couldn't explain it, because she was dead. Plain and simple. Just like any other corpse. Nobody could breathe life into her again, ever. What did he expect?

The difference was nobody knew who she was. Nobody claimed her. Where were her parents? Could they have killed her? What kind of parents, what kind of people, would do something like that?

He quickly picked up the hair between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it lightly. He felt grit, like grains of sand mixed with hair. He squeezed hard. Vague images entered his consciousness, building on events of the day. The old brick meeting house. The Lenape King Tavern. He saw a group of figures, a man and a woman and a third figure prostrate with exhaustion. They were fugitives hiding in subterranean tunnels, waiting to proceed to the next stage on their journey. Nothing relevant.

Frustrated, he put the hair in a separate envelope and went to get a Rolling Rock from the fridge. He switched on the TV. The Big 5 sports channel. Beach volleyball, Penn against Temple. That was different. Where'd they find a beach this time of night in Philly? Lots of diving in the sand. Tattoos. Sunscreen. Bruno grabbed another beer at the start of the third match, but fell asleep before it ended.

Then he had a dream. The statue of William Penn came to life. He climbed down from City Hall and walked to a dark field where he captured an owl by the wings. It is a life or death struggle. The owl keeps saying, “Who, Who, Who?” while William Penn sings in a funny singsong chant, “What's the score? What's the score? What's the score?” And the owl replies, “50-3-2-60 …” over and over again.

At last, he wakes up to find that it's not an owl, but Big Bird singing. And it's not William Penn, but Peaches Cromwell sitting on his bed, holding a steaming hot grande Starbucks latte in the vicinity of his head.

Chapter 11

“Where's Maggie?” asked Bruno, startled.

“Eating breakfast.”

“I didn't know you could cook.”

“It's actually a preparation similar to steak tartare, but without the sauce. I wasn't sure that'd be good for her,” Peaches explained.

“I'm impressed.” Bruno tried to get up.

Peaches prevented him by planting a forearm in his chest. “Where do you think you're going?”

“To get my notepad. I need to write down my dream before I forget it.”

Peaches waved the latte near Bruno's cheek, threatening to spill it.

“OK. I guess I'll just commit it to memory.”

Peaches eased her elbow away from his sternum, but didn't back off with the latte.

“I didn't know you were so domestic,” Bruno quipped. “Next you'll probably be telling me about how you used to be a cheerleader in high school?”

“Now I'm impressed,” Peaches returned with smooth sarcasm. “You're pretty good. You must be psychic. I did some research on you too.” She paused for effect. “Joey. Kaplan. Kicked out of Princeton for cheating …”

Her knowledge of Bruno's real name was supposed to unsettle him, but he took it in stride. “Couldn't be helped. All the right answers seemed to pop into my head during exams. I didn't realize I was ‘listening in' on Robert Darling, the star student.”

“Then you went to New York and took a job in advertising. Same thing. A client accused you of falsifying focus group research.”

“That's not exactly true,” Bruno protested. “I ‘interviewed' nearly a hundred people—who happened to be taking the day off on a beach near the city. They all seemed to be having fantasies about the Marlboro Man. I thought the brand was golden. But then we found out the population in general saw things quite differently …”

“Then your marriage to Sharon Cohen broke up the same way. You caught her cheating on a trip to California—without ever leaving New York.”

“It was awful. One moment I was looking at her photograph. Next thing I knew, I was seeing
every
thing, just like I was there,” Bruno recalled ruefully. “Say, you trying to steam clean the upholstery or you going to let me drink that coffee?”

Peaches ignored him. “Then you drifted around the West, got kicked out of Vegas and even the rinky-dink tribal casinos.”

“That's where I perfected my Yiddish. You run into a lot of members of the lost tribe in those out-of-the-way casinos.”

Peaches raised her eyebrows. “Drink the coffee. You're going to need it.”

“What do you mean? And what are you doing here anyway?”

“I followed you.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“What did you do? Lurk around in the bushes all night? That's why Maggie was barking.” He called Maggie and she came running. She ignored Bruno and ran right to Peaches, sniffing at her oversized handbag.

“Nice doggie.” Peaches patted the dog uncomfortably. “As you can see, she's quite fond of my steak tartare recipe.”

“Maggie, off. Get away from her,” commanded Bruno. Then, to Peaches, “You just got lucky. It's dangerous out here. A trigger-happy Piney might have found you …”

“I went home and came back this morning.”

“You've been wasting a lot of gas. And hamburger. What I want to know is why are you doing this? If you wanted to talk to me, why not just call me on the phone? I gave the Chief my number. I've gone to a lot of trouble to keep my name and address private. Getting beat up or killed by bad guys is no fun.”

“Well, I need something to write about,” Peaches said, moving closer again. “You weren't exactly cooperative the other day. Interviewing people off the record is a waste of my time. On the other hand …” she acted like she was flirting, placing a hand on his knee and moving it along his thigh, “… exposing your ‘credentials' would make good copy.”

“You were the one who recommended that the Chief hire a psychic.”

“I didn't suggest he hire a fake and a loser.”

“I'm not a fake,” Bruno retorted.

“Well then prove it … loser. Give me something I can write about instead.”

Chapter 12

Next day, the following story appeared in the
Pest
under P.C. Cromwell's byline:

SEX AND KABBALAH AND ROCK 'N' ROLL

Cutting-edge technique casts doubt on police theory, psychic says

TABERNACLE, NJ—Somewhere in this warren of back roads, blueberry bogs, and scrub pine, a mobile home sits in a clearing. It is a nondescript place; a run-down doublewide with a woodstove and a satellite dish. You'd expect to find a local Piney or, for those given to flights of the imagination, some incipient sociopath or fugitive from justice—as opposed to a jet-setting law enforcement specialist who is connected to rock superstar and sex symbol Magdalena.

Yet that is what this reporter discovered after braving slippery roads, freezing temperatures, and an arduous all-night stakeout. Thanks to our careful investigative work, the South Jersey Post has discovered the base of operations for Bruno X, the psychic detective recently hired by the Gardenfield Police Department to assist in the investigation of the recent Quaker killing.

In an exclusive interview, this Bruno X—he uses this nom de guerre to protect himself from perpetrators who may attempt to disrupt his investigations through physical intimidation—revealed that he believes that the body found in the Friends Meeting House in Gardenfield last month may not have been the victim of a fellow Quaker. Quakers are known for deploring violence of any kind. Therefore it was paradoxical to find a murder victim in a Quaker meeting house.

Bruno X points out, “In the Middle Ages, goyim” (a colorful Yiddish word employed by the speaker to identify the dominant Christian populations in Eastern Europe) would dump murdered bodies in the synagogue in order to provoke outrage against Jews. It was part of something called the ‘blood libel.'” The so-called “blood libel” refers to the mytho-historical, quasi-legendary practice where Christians accuse Jews of killing Christian children so they would have blood to make Passover matzoh. Bruno X believes it is possible someone may have moved the body to the meeting house to discredit the Quakers.

Who might have such a sinister objective? Mr. X declined to speculate.

When asked to explain the basis for this deduction, Bruno X revealed that he uses the Kabbalah to process the evidence he receives from psychic sources. Readers will recognize the Kabbalah as the mystical form of Judaism that has become high-profile since it was adopted by sex symbol Magdalena. Magdalena performed most recently in London on behalf of the starving millions in Africa. She also has authored a children's book that reflects her experience of the Kabbalah