Authors: Roy Johansen
Nikki nodded.
“And I'm not going to leave you, ever. I'm going to watch you grow up, I'm going to scare the hell out of guys who dare to take you out on dates, and I'm going to walk you down the aisle on your wedding day. I'm going to spoil your kids like crazy, and then I'm going to spoil
their
kids.”
She almost smiled. “If you live to be that old,
I'm
not going to be the one to change your diaper.”
He laughed. “My diaper?”
“I've seen those commercials.”
“You and I have very different ideas about old age, and for my sake, I hope
I'm
right.”
She laid her head on his chest. “Be careful, Daddy.”
“You didn't think this was enough of a circus?” Joe sighed as Kellner prepped the parapsychology lab for a telepathy test.
“You were holding out on us, Bailey. Why didn't you tell us about these incidents?”
“First of all, there's nothing to talk about. They were
accidents.
And second, I'm having a tough enough time on this case without being hounded by reporters. I'd barely climbed out of that elevator shaft when I thought of you guys going to town on this. It looks like I was right. How did you find out?”
“Everyone knows about the library shelves. The sixth floor was closed until Tuesday. After I heard about that, I remembered seeing you with bandages on your hands. Professor Reisman's secretary knew you had been in some kind of an elevator accident, so I called a few repair companies and found out about the problem in your building. Simple as that.”
“So, rather than simply study the apparent phenomena, you felt compelled to run to the media.”
Kellner's smile was full of malice. “The press hasn't been kind to this program, especially since the
Spirit Basher came along. I thought this might help restore the balance.”
“Right. At the expense of me and my daughter.”
“Don't try to guilt me, Joe. You've cost this program tens of thousands of dollars in grants, and you've made sure that we're thought of as complete buffoons.”
“You've
made sure of that. My purpose is to protect your reputations and the reputation of this university. It's not my fault that you shoot off your mouths about every new ‘discovery’ before I've had a chance to show you they're complete frauds.”
Kellner checked the seal on a fresh pack of test cards. “Enough already. I'm sure you didn't come here just to complain about a few reporters.”
Joe let out a long breath. Let it go. “Okay, what can you tell me about Ted and Crystal Rawlings?”
“Who?”
He told Kellner about Ness's audit, the mysterious grant, and Nelson's subsequent return of the money.
Kellner claimed to have heard none of it before. He shook his head. “We occasionally investigate things on our own before we bring them to the attention of the group, but we're not in the business of giving out grants. We may pay travel expenses and put subjects up in a hotel room, but that's about it. A hundred and sixty thousand dollars? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I'd offer to look in Nelson's files, but you people have already taken them all.”
“I checked them this morning. He had no record of the Rawlings family.”
Kellner shrugged. “I'm sorry. I can't help you.”
“Check with the rest of the spook squad, will you? Maybe he talked to one of them.”
“I doubt it, but I'll ask.”
Joe pulled out his notebook. “Okay, I have a question about one of the test sessions in Nelson's logs. Just a few days before they went to Dallas, Nelson tested Jesse in here. I can't find any video on it, and there are no results posted. There's just a notation that reads ‘T.A.’”
“There you have it. ‘T.A.’ means ‘test abandoned.’”
“Why would that happen?”
“Any one of a number of reasons. Do you know what the test involved?”
Joe checked his notebook. “It just says ‘halo.’”
“Oh, that explains it. He was trying out a new piece of test equipment. It probably wasn't working correctly, so he canceled the rest of the session.”
“Why is there no video?”
“Cassettes for TA. sessions are usually put back into the pool and recorded over. It would serve no scholarly purpose to watch Nelson cuss out a piece of malfunctioning test equipment.”
“If that's what really happened. What is this halo thing?”
“It's a cranial electrometer, but we call it the electric halo. It measures electrical activity emanating from the brain.”
“Can I see it?”
Kellner glanced at his watch and frowned. “I guess so. It's here in the video booth.”
He led Joe through a doorway into the small booth
where the testing center's sessions were transmitted by wireless video cameras to an array of receivers, monitors, and VCRs. He gestured toward the corner, where a bizarre-looking device was resting on a wig stand. It looked like a gold halo with dozens of long wires sprouting in every direction.
Joe placed it on his head and looked at himself in the reflection of a monitor. The wires drooped over his face and ears. “I hate to think how much the university paid for this thing. Does it actually work?”
Kellner removed it from Joe's head and put it back on the stand. “It does what it's supposed to do, but we've yet to establish a meaningful link between paranormal phenomena and electrical activity of the brain.”
“After the abandoned session, was Jesse ever tested with this?”
Kellner thought for a moment. “No, I don't think so. And that's strange, because Nelson ran every other test on him.”
The first broadcast news reporter called Joe at 11:45. The second called a few minutes after three. Four more called in the half hour after that. The “psychic attacks” story had broken wide open, and everyone wanted a quote. Was he afraid of becoming Jesse Randall's next victim?
Howe walked into the squad room and tossed down a copy of the newspaper. On the front page, just below the fold, was the headline: SPIRIT BASHER
TARGETED BY REPUTED PSYCHIC? Howe smiled. “You didn't tell me you were a marked man, Bailey.”
“
I
didn't know until the reporters started to stir things up.”
“The boss wants to talk to you about it.”
“Gerald?”
“Yep. Let's go.”
Joe went with Howe to Lieutenant Gerald's office, where Joe related the elevator and library incidents. Gerald had a peculiar look on his face.
Joe had seen that look before. A little fear, a dash of wonder … Gerald
believed.
“I'm sure Jesse Randall and his supposed powers had nothing to do with it,” Joe said emphatically.
Gerald nodded, but his expression didn't change.
The guy actually thought Jesse might be the real thing, even if he wouldn't admit it. Great.
“Watch yourself,” Gerald said. “If anything else happens, I want to be the first call you make. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“You're still convinced Jesse Randall's a fake?”
Joe flashed on the image of that flyer waving on the pole. “Yes.”
“You said you'd be able to figure out his methods. Why hasn't that happened?”
“As with many so-called telekinetics, Jesse's demonstrations are brief and, at least when I'm around, he doesn't announce what he's going to do before he does it. That makes it difficult to analyze his technique.”
“What's your next step?”
“Right now I'm going to see Jesse.”
Gerald raised his eyebrows. “What good will that do?”
“For me, maybe no good at all. This one's for him.”
As Joe approached the Randall home, he noticed that the gauntlet of reporters had grown larger, and the uniformed cop in front was now looking harried and even a little fearful.
Latisha let Joe inside, and he was startled to see a barrel-chested man standing in the living room.
“Detective Bailey!” the man's voice boomed. He thrust out his right hand.
As Joe shook hands, he suddenly recognized the man. Stewart Dunning. Defense lawyer extraordinaire.
Every cop's worst nightmare.
Joe had never crossed paths with him before, but Dunning had a reputation for making mincemeat of officers on the witness stand. He'd made a name for himself representing drug dealers, and he'd gradually expanded his client base to include white-collar criminals.
Arrested with a kilo of coke in the trunk? Call Stewart Dunning.
Got caught selling defective airline parts to the air force? Dunning's your man.
“What brings you here?” Joe asked, remembering that Dunning would gladly use any slip of the tongue against him.
“Jesse Randall is my client, Detective. No more unannounced visits. If you wish to speak to him,
arrange it through me. I'll be present for any and all conversations you have with him.”
Joe turned to Latisha.
“I'm sorry, but I have to protect my son,” she said.
“With this guy? One of his clients was paying kids Jesse's age to carry bags of heroin. A little boy got killed for it last year.”
Dunning glared at him. “That will be enough, Detective.”
“Did you run over here to volunteer your services, Dunning? You saw all the attention and decided you wanted to grab a piece of it and get yourself on television?”
“I saw a child whose interests weren't being represented.”
“I'm touched.”
Latisha stepped forward. “Detective, I don't believe this man gives a damn about my son.”
Dunning started to object, but Latisha held up her hand to silence him.
“It's not his job to give a damn,” she said. “His job is to protect my boy, and I believe he'll do that. Not because he cares about Jesse or me, but because he cares about himself and his reputation as a lawyer. I know what kind of man Mr. Dunning is, and whatever you think of him, he's one of the best.”
Joe couldn't argue with that.
“I can't afford
any
lawyer, much less one like Mr. Dunning. So when he came to my door offering to help Jesse, what else was I going to do? What would you do if you and your daughter were in our position? I think you'd want her to have the best help she could get. Wouldn't you?”
He didn't answer. She was right, and he knew it.
“You've been decent to us,” she said, “but I'm going to take Mr. Dunning's advice. In the future, I'd appreciate it if you would call him first if you want to ask Jesse any questions.”
“I didn't come here to ask questions,” Joe said. “The reporters have been blowing things out of proportion today.”
“We've heard. Are you all right?”
“Yes. I know those accidents weren't Jesse's fault, but I thought he'd like to hear that from me.”
Dunning motioned toward the front door. “Jesse is fine. If that's all, Detective …”
“What do you think, Ms. Randall?”
Latisha considered it, then nodded. “Jesse! Come in here, please.”
Dunning shot her a disapproving glance.
Jesse appeared in the doorway, staring uneasily at Joe. “Hi, Mr. Bailey.”
“Hi, Jesse. Crazy day, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Joe moved closer. “People are trying to make this something it's not. They say that you're attacking me with your mind. I don't believe that, and I don't want you to believe it either. Okay?”
Jesse nodded.
“Now, are you
sure
there's nothing you want to tell me?”
Dunning stepped between them. “You promised not to ask questions, Detective.”
“Jesse, please. This can all end with just a few words from you.”
“We're finished!” Dunning said.
Joe studied Jesse. He looked troubled. Guilt, maybe? Or something else?
Dunning walked to the front door and opened it. “There's no physical evidence that links my client to the crime, Detective, and he has no idea how it happened. I can't see why you would have any cause to talk to Jesse anymore.”
“Of course not. If it comes out that he has no powers, there's no story. The reporters will go away and your ride on the Hype Express will come to an end. Do you really want what's best for Jesse?”
Dunning forced a smile. “Good-bye.”
Joe turned toward Latisha and Jesse. “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
He left the house and muttered a silent curse as he walked back to his car. Dunning's involvement would complicate things. He admired Latisha's ability to recognize the attorney's motives, but keeping Jesse cloistered away really wasn't in the boy's best interests.
Joe climbed into his car and drove north on I-75 toward Cartersville. He knew if he was going to get any more information out of the Rawlings family, it was going to be from Crystal. He would definitely pay her a return visit, but not yet.
Now he had to see a doctor.
The Columbia Cartersville Medical Center was a sterile complex of buildings on Joe Frank Harris Parkway, and it was easily the largest hospital within twenty-five miles. Sixteen-year-old Gaby Rawlings had died there.
Joe's questions to Crystal had clearly triggered some deep and disturbing memories about her daughter. He was pretty sure that in a town as small as Cartersville, someone at the hospital would remember Gaby Rawlings. He was right.
“It shouldn't have happened.” Dr. Stanley Gelson shook his head. The surgical resident was an impossibly young-looking man with short, frizzy hair and round wire-rimmed glasses. He held Gaby Rawlings's patient file in his lap.
Joe was talking to him in the cramped waiting area of the hospital emergency room.
Mama's Family
was blaring from the television as a reminder of what a hellish experience those waiting rooms could be.
“Was there anything suspicious about her death?”
“Not suspicious, really, just needless. The kid's appendix ruptured. It's something we can fix these days.”
“Why didn't you?”
“It was too late. Peritonitis had already set in. They should have brought her here hours or even days earlier.”
“You think the parents were negligent?”
Gelson shrugged. “In this case, what's negligence? Driving your kid straight to the hospital when she has a tummyache, or waiting it out to avoid a two-thousand-dollar emergency room tab? It's happening more and more, I'm afraid. Without insurance, most people can't afford to be sick.”