Authors: Roy Johansen
Jesse took another bite of the churro.
“What I'm trying to say is, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to happen,” he said gently.
Jesse took off his glasses and wiped them with his shirt. He stopped in front of a No Littering sign, where someone had taped a bright green flyer advertising a local rock band. Jesse lowered his head and stared at it.
It was
the
stare.
The paper started flapping.
Slowly at first, then faster. And faster.
Joe squinted at the flyer. How in the hell was this happening?
Jesse's head tilted to the left. His stare grew more intense. The flyer flapped even harder. It was as if a heavy gust of wind were blowing against it, but the air around them was still.
Was Jesse blowing on it? Joe studied his face. The boy's mouth was closed and his nostrils were pointing down to his chest. Joe slowly raised the back of his hand so that it was only inches from Jesse's nose and mouth. No air.
Holy shit.
The flyer strained against the tiny sliver of tape holding it to the sign pole. Jesse's head tilted to the other side. The sign finally jerked free of the tape. It floated to the ground.
Joe snatched it up and looked at both sides. Clean. He ran his hands over the signpost. Nothing.
Jesse backed away. “I don't want to talk anymore.”
“How?” Joe whispered.
“Mama's waiting for me.” Jesse turned and waved to his mother, who had just come out of the bank. “I have to go home now.”
“How?” Joe whispered again.
Jesse was already walking toward his mother.
All the way back to his office, Joe tried to comprehend what he'd seen. Advance preparation wasn't a possibility. He, not Jesse, had chosen to walk outside, and the boy had had no idea they'd be walking past that sign together.
Between this and Suzanne Morrison's séance, it had been a thoroughly mind-blowing couple of days. Two amazing demonstrations in a little more than twenty-four hours of each other.
He still hadn't recovered from the experience, when he stepped off the elevator to find a billionaire waiting for him.
“Detective Bailey, I'm Roland Ness.”
Sure you are, Joe almost said. He was glad he didn't. He'd never met Ness in the years he spent debunking the parapsychology team's findings, but he was sure that the state's second-wealthiest citizen was aware of his work.
Joe smiled ruefully. What next? First an eight-year-old boy stumped him, now Roland Ness was hanging around in the squad room, waiting for him.
Ness extended his hand. He was a tall, robust man in his late sixties, with strong features, gray hair and beard, and bushy white eyebrows. His eyes glistened with what most people might call a childlike twinkle, but they reminded Joe of someone who had just been peeling onions.
“Hello, Mr. Ness. What brings you here?”
“Can we talk?”
“Sure. If you'll walk this way—”
“If you don't mind, I have someplace that may be more private.”
“What do you mean?”
“My truck is outside.”
“Excuse me?”
“Detective, for a man in my position, privacy is a precious, even vital, commodity. Will you indulge me?”
Ness was obviously used to getting his way, but there was nothing arrogant or insistent about his manner.
Joe turned around, and for the second time in the space of an hour, all eyes in the squad room were on him. He motioned toward the door. “Lead the way.”
The “truck” was a thirty-foot RV that could have been driven by his aunt Susie and uncle Thomas on their frequent trips to Branson. The interior, however, reflected a sleek European sensibility, accented by low-key lighting and dark, plush furniture. As soon as Ness closed the door behind them, the vehicle pulled away from the curb. Joe glanced at the spike-haired woman behind the wheel.
“She's my driver,” Ness said. “Call me sexist, but I think women make much better drivers than men. By and large, they're calmer, and the highway isn't a video game to them. They're more concerned about getting me where I'm going and less concerned about getting back at the bastard who cut us off five miles back.”
Joe sat across from Ness. “What can I do for you?”
Ness smiled. “As I'm sure you know, I have an interest in the supernatural.”
“I hear it's more of an obsession.”
“Obsession … that's a strong word. I prefer ‘fascination.’”
“Whatever you call it, I know the Landwyn University parapsychology program appreciates your interest.”
“You're talking about the money.”
“You're keeping that program afloat.”
“I make several endowments to the university. The parapsychology program just happens to be one.”
“You're aware of the fact that a lot of the people at the university just wish the program would go away.”
“Of course.” Ness chuckled. “Many people in my own companies wish it would go away too. But I think it's important to study the paranormal in a scientific manner.
You
should appreciate that, Mr. Bailey. So much of the evidence is purely anecdotal. If my endowment can help advance our knowledge in the field, then it's worth it.”
“Does it frustrate you that the program has yet to find one verifiable occurrence of paranormal activity?”
“What about Jesse Randall?”
Could Ness see the tension in his face? How? “I'm still working on that,” Joe said.
“And they have a medium who shows promise, don't they?”
“Suzanne Morrison. I'm seeing her again soon, so I wouldn't get your hopes up.”
“I see.” He paused. “I really wanted to speak to you about Robert Nelson. It's tragic what happened to him, but there's an irregularity that I felt you should be made aware of.”
“What is it?”
“I have an auditor who looks after my endowments and sees that the money isn't being spent frivolously. A few months ago we discovered that a substantial amount of the program's funds was being granted to a family in Cartersville.”
“Why?”
“I asked Nelson that very question, and after a few weak lies he finally admitted it had all been a mistake. I threatened to pull his funding and have him brought up on charges, but he personally paid back the money into the program's budget.”
“Did he ever explain how it had happened?”
“No. My investigator did some preliminary investigation into the family. There's nothing remarkable about them, and they've had no apparent experience with the paranormal.”
Joe remembered the $25,000 that Howe had found in Nelson's house. “You think maybe it was a scam? Maybe he was using them to funnel money back to himself?”
“It certainly appeared that way. Especially since he had no trouble coming up with the money to put back into the coffers.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“One hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”
Joe wrinkled his brow. “Not exactly the kind of money a college professor would have handy. Although he did have a nice house.”
“Inherited from his parents,” Ness said. “It was all he could do to keep up with the property taxes.”
“He told you this?”
“You think I didn't have him thoroughly checked out?”
“How silly of me.”
“We carefully scrutinized all of the program's other financial dealings, and this was the only irregularity.”
“Tell me something. How much control did you have over the test sessions?”
“None, really. I'm always interested in their progress, but I have other things to keep me busy.”
Joe pulled out a small photo of the red-haired man, printed from one of the Jesse Randall session tapes. “Does this man work for you, Mr. Ness?”
Ness glanced at the photo. “No.”
“Have you seen him before?”
“No. Who is he?”
“I'm trying to find out. He had input on some of the Jesse Randall tests, but no one seems to know who he is. He and Nelson were pretty secretive about his identity.”
“Hmm. Interesting. I wonder, Detective, if you wouldn't mind giving me that photograph. I assume you have another.”
Joe put the photo back into his pocket. “I
would
mind. Why do you want it?”
Ness scratched his beard. “I thought I could help. I do have a fair amount of resources at my disposal, and it would be an honor to assist you.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
Ness looked through the tinted side windows. “Ah, here we are. Back at your headquarters.” He handed Joe a typed index card. “This is the address of the family in Cartersville. It may turn out to be nothing, but you never know.”
“You never know.”
Ness opened the door for him. “It was wonderful to finally meet you, Mr. Bailey. It's not every day that one gets to meet a real-life Spirit Basher.”
“Or a real-life billionaire.”
Joe stepped onto the sidewalk, and he could still
hear Ness chuckling as the door swung shut and the RV pulled away.
“I'm already on it, Bailey. And I didn't need a visit from Roland Ness to tip me off.” Howe leaned back in his desk chair.
Arrogant prick.
“And what do you have?” Joe asked.
Howe spoke just loud enough for the detectives at the neighboring desks to hear the seasoned homicide cop enlightening the greenhorn. “I talked to the university finance office, and they confirmed there had apparently been an error, and that Nelson had paid them back in cash. But there was no record of the money ever entering any bank account of his.”
“You think this family may have slipped it back to him under the table?”
“Possible.”
“Have you checked the family out?”
Howe picked up a yellow Post-it note and squinted at his scribbling. “Ted and Crystal Rawlings. He steam-cleans carpets for a living, she's currently unemployed. They had a teenage daughter who died of appendicitis last year. Their house is a rental, and they have about twenty months left to pay on their Ford Explorer.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“Not yet.”
“Let's go.”
“Whoa there. I said I'm on it.”
“We're
on it. Cartersville is only an hour's drive. In
about fifteen seconds I'll be on my way there. Are you with me or not?”
Howe glanced at the detectives at the nearby desks, giving them a can-you-believe-this-guy? look. He grabbed his badge and keys from the candy wrapper-cluttered desktop. “Sure. Carl Crimestop-per's got himself a lead. I don't want to miss this.”
Joe had been to Cartersville only once in his life, when his high school basketball team had advanced to the state playoffs. They had lost the game, and for years the mere thought of Cartersville conjured up images of the torrent of paper cups and empty Skoal containers that had been hurled at him and his teammates as they made the sad trek back to the bus. Joe looked at the Budweiser plant as he and Howe drove past, thinking that a lot of those rotten kids were now probably working inside, stirring yeast and cleaning ten-thousand-gallon beer vats.
They found the Rawlings house, a modest ranch-style home in a small subdivision called Bayonet Arms. The name was a nod to the area's Civil War history, but to Joe it still seemed as odd as a neighborhood called Machine-Gun Estates or Grenade-Launcher Villas.
He rapped on the front door, and the sound of barking dogs echoed through the house. After a moment, a frail woman in her late thirties answered the door. “Yes?”
Joe smiled. “Crystal Rawlings?”
“Yes?”
He flashed his badge. “I'm Detective Joe Bailey. This is Detective Mark Howe. We're with the Atlanta Police Department, and we'd like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”
Her face flushed. “The house is a mess. I wish you'd called first.”
Howe stepped forward. “Ms. Rawlings, you don't have to worry about that. I can see already that you have a very nice home, and we just want to ask you a few questions. Okay?”
Joe was impressed. Howe actually knew how to hide his pricklike tendencies.
She managed a weak smile and opened the door. “Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you.”
The house smelled of dog, and the couch and carpeting were covered with at least three different colors of canine hair.
She gestured to the couch. “Please sit down.”
“No, thank you,” Howe said. He fired off the first question: “How did you know Dr. Robert Nelson?”
Her eyes widened. She couldn't have looked guiltier. “Who?” she asked.
Howe smiled. “Let's skip this part, where you pretend you didn't know him and I insist you did, okay? If your memory needs refreshing, he's the guy who gave you a hundred and sixty thousand dollars and then ended up impaled up near the ceiling of his study.
That
Robert Nelson.”
Her eyes darted around the room as if searching for a convenient escape hatch. “Maybe you should talk to my husband. He'll be home any minute.”
“We'll be happy to talk to him, but we'd like to talk to you first.”
Joe leaned forward. “What was the money for, Ms. Rawlings? Why did Dr. Nelson give it to you?”
She bit her lip and looked at the floor. “It came from the school, not from him.”
“But he authorized it,” Joe said.
“Yes.” She took several deep breaths. “It was for a project.”
“What project?”
“I can't talk about that.”
“Can't or won't?”
“It was a condition of our agreement.”
“An agreement between you and Robert Nelson?”
She nodded.
Howe was getting more annoyed by the minute. “Then why doesn't anyone else in his department know anything about it? This is not the way his program was run. Would you like to continue this conversation at the station? Because I think—”
Joe cut him off. “We're investigating a murder, Ms. Rawlings. I think that pretty much supersedes any agreement you may have had with the late Dr. Nelson.”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “I—I gave my word. I can't go against that.”
“This is important,” Joe said. “I guarantee you it's more important than anything that happened between him and your family.”
She shot a glance at the end table, where there were two framed photographs. A slightly plump teenage girl was in both shots.
“Is that your daughter?” Joe softly asked.