Jon shrugged, then smiled at himself, aware Ben couldn’t see him. Good thing—he was at his desk in a robe and boxer shorts. “In profiling, the nature of the crimes suggests a man, but until a killer is caught, a profile is a guide, an assumption made through education on the human psyche—but never proof.”
“Well, if you want to see our medical examiner, I’m heading over at 11:00. You can go earlier, if you want, but I’d rather be there for the end report—even though I don’t believe we’ll learn much we don’t already know. She was stabbed repeatedly and bled to death.”
“I’ll join you,” Jon said.
“Walk straight up off the pedestrian sideway. I’ll meet you between the museum and the Old Burying Point,” Ben told him.
Jon rang off, pensive. He couldn’t help thinking about Kylie and the strange reaction she’d had to seeing Michael Westerly on the news. And then hearing about the murder. He’d watched her face; there had been very real horror written on her features.
He told himself he’d overreacted, putting so much faith in her vision. There was probably no way Senator Michael Westerly could be involved. The man had a wife, grown children, and a sterling reputation.
Jon shook his head thoughtfully; he’d started creating his case board last night. He had times and details, pictures of the victims in life and in death, statements from those close to them...
Jon had confirmed Westerly’s schedule last night, reaching out quietly to an assistant in the senator’s office. The man hadn’t been anywhere near the other sites where the crimes had been committed. If the dates and times of the senator’s meetings and other engagements were correct, Westerly couldn’t be the killer.
Kylie had been hypnotized. Maybe she had mixed things up in her mind under the influence of a clever mentalist who could make people see “the past.”
Except the murder hadn’t been in the past, which made it very curious. Still...it could be just a mind game played on a susceptible subject.
But Kylie had been convinced. In her mind’s eye, she had seen Westerly murder Annie. She had, in her vision, been Annie Hampton. And Jon knew very well that there was more to the universe, and to the human mind, than most people realized. Which was why he believed that Kylie had seen something.
The killer just couldn’t have been the man Kylie had seen.
Could the senator’s schedule be off? Or had he disappeared by night to commit murder and then reappear in the morning? Were the logistics even possible?
Jon picked up his phone again. He made an appointment to meet with the senator, clearly identifying himself as being with the Bureau.
Apparently, that didn’t cause the least alarm. The senator would be glad to see him that afternoon, or so the man’s assistant assured Jon.
He hung up, drumming his fingers on the desk. He’d slept badly and was grateful that there was a shower stall in the small bathroom. And the water ran hot.
He was ready for a long shower.
It didn’t matter that he stayed under the steaming water for a long time; he was spinning his wheels that morning. Having arrived just yesterday, he’d already met with Ben Miller, set up shop, and started to stake out the Cauldron.
He’d hoped to stop a killer here but the man struck before he’d found the least clue how to find him. Jon had barely come out of the shower, dried himself, and dressed when there was a knock at his door.
He answered it carefully—that was his instinct. There weren’t many people who knew he was in Salem. And it was still ridiculously early for anyone to be out in a tourist town, somewhere between seven thirty and eight. He knew he would not be opening the door to a stray tourist who wanted to know when lollipops would be available.
To his surprise, it was Kylie Connelly. She offered him a weak smile. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Um, may I come in?”
“Sure.” He opened the door wide, indicating she was welcome. Still, he felt awkward with her in his space, until they were seated on opposite sides of the desk as if in an interview.
Or an interrogation.
He looked at her hopefully. “You have something more for me?”
She sighed and shook her head, looking down at her hands for a moment and then back up at him. “I don’t have more, I’m sorry. But I’m afraid I’m going a little crazy. I barely slept. There seemed to be so much to my vision, or whatever it was... I could feel the sun, see the sky, and I... Oh!” She leaned forward, as if remembering. “I knew I was supposed to meet him there. I met him there often, probably because it’s in an area where no one really goes. Tourists occasionally, but it’s not the beaten path, you know? Most people come downtown, and then they might drive out to the Rebecca Nurse Homestead or other sites associated with the witch trials, but... Sorry, I guess I’m digressing. Anyway, in my dreams, I was remembering more about the experience. More than what I saw with Dr. Sayers.” She winced. “This sounds impossible, I know. I felt I was Annie Hampton, and I walked with her, waiting...until the killer came.”
Jon frowned. “What do you do for a living, Miss Connelly?”
“I’m a docent—or a curator,” she told him. “I was with the Met until recently. I’m going to be the head historian for a museum in an old mansion in New York City that’s just been restored. Why?”
He had to admit to himself—he’d been afraid she was going to say she was a psychic or the like. Not that he disparaged any form of a living, as long as it didn’t hurt others. He just needed to know she wasn’t showboating for attention for her profession. And naturally, in his work with the Krewe, he’d come to be skeptical of those who claimed to have “powers.” Those who really did have unusual abilities tended to keep their talents quiet.
Whatever this was, she wasn’t making it up. She hadn’t approached him with her vision. On the contrary, he had dragged her out of the restaurant where she and her friends had gone to enjoy an evening together.
“You’re from Massachusetts,” he said, “and you went to Harvard. But you’re working in New York?”
She shrugged. “I was offered a good position after college. And I love New York. Of course, I love Boston, too. It’s a great city.”
“I see.”
“Why?” she demanded.
“Just curious.”
“I’m... I’m not prone to this kind of thing. I don’t normally have visions or anything. But you pulled me out of the bar. You seemed to believe me. And then I had nightmares all night. I don’t know... I thought you could help.”
“Yeah. Sorry,” he said. “Listen, I have to meet with a local cop in a while. But later, I’m going back by the graveyard. Would you come with me? Show me everything you saw and felt in this dream that you had?”