“Statistically speaking, they’re more likely to be female, from the killer’s own race group, and taken from the edges of society.” At my confused look, he explained, “Runaways, sex workers, addicts, migrant workers, transients, the homeless, people like that.”
“Because police don’t investigate those crimes as thoroughly?”
He winced. “Historically, for sure, especially with racial minorities. I like to think we’re getting better. But often marginalized people become victims because killers know they won’t be missed immediately … or ever. Their families might have cut off all contact because they don’t approve of their lifestyle and don’t know, or perhaps even care, when they disappear.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty damn sad,” he said. “And also, these individuals are more likely to take greater chances and engage in more risky behaviors, like hitchhiking or sex work, because they don’t have money or support systems. And they often abuse drugs or alcohol, so they don’t always make wise decisions.” He held up his hands as if defending himself against an accusation. “I’m not blaming the victims. I’m just saying it’s easier for a killer to snatch a victim from these marginal groups than from middle-class suburbia. There’s even a term for them.” He met my gaze and sighed. “The ‘less dead.’”
“That’s horrible.”
“No argument from me.”
We sat in silence for a while, Ryan glancing at the TV while I thought about how, in death as in life, we weren’t all treated as equal.
I tore off a strip of label from my beer bottle and rolled it into a little paper pellet. “I just wish I knew what all the FBI found.” That was putting it mildly. I hadn’t been able to get the thought of a new body out of my mind. “Singh’s meeting me at my parents’ house on Monday morning, and I’m going to ask him if I can read the file on this new case.”
“Good luck with that. He doesn’t strike me as the cooperative type.” Ryan pulled my hand away from its frantic fiddling and held it between his two warm ones. “Garnet, are you sure you want to get involved in this? You know it’s likely to be frustrating and upsetting. Possibly even dangerous.”
Did I want to get involved? I wasn’t sure. I wanted the Button Man caught, but did I really want to be sucked into an investigation which might bring me closer to him, to his deeds? There had been moments when I’d wished I’d never been “gifted” with this ability, when I wondered whether, if I ignored it, it would just go away. But then I’d remember the words of my psychology professor, Kenneth Perry: “Whatever you bank collects interest.”
Of course, he’d been talking about the defense mechanism of repression, not troublesome clairvoyant talents, but still, I didn’t think much good would come from squashing down this powerful new part of myself.
“I’m already involved,” I told Ryan. “I want to find out more. I want to know where this goes, where it ends. And I’d really like to help nail this guy. Besides, to tell the truth, I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Is your thesis finished? Submitted?” Ryan asked.
“Yup. All that’s left to do is to graduate.”
“What does a master’s in psychology qualify you to do?”
I shrugged. “Probably nothing useful or well paid.”
A part of me wondered if I could turn my new gifts to good use. My mother thought I should hang out a shingle advertising myself as a “psychic private eye,” but my mother thought a lot of things that were absurd and impossible.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“Go back to Boston, I guess.”
Ryan played with my fingers. “You could stay here.”
I could tell he wanted me to, and knowing that melted a chip of the icy shell around my heart. I compensated with sarcastic bluster. “And do what?”
“What will you do in Boston?” he countered.
Fair point.
He tucked a stray curl of hair behind my ear. “I think we’re going to have to find you a job here.”
Return to Pitchford permanently? If anyone had suggested it six months ago, I would’ve rejected the idea outright. But now it was more appealing, especially with the way things were progressing in my relationship with Ryan. I’d led an isolated life in Boston while I studied and battled my way through grief and depression. I hadn’t made good friends, and although I’d had sexual partners, I’d never had lovers.
Nothing was stopping me from moving my meagre belongings back to Pitchford. But my heart sank at the thought of returning to my old bedroom at my parents’ house. Apart from the fact that it would feel like a total admission of my failure to launch my adult life, my mother and I tended to rub each other up the wrong way. Even my father, now that he’d retired, had a tendency to get too much into my business.
I glanced at Ryan. “I can almost hear the wheels of your brain turning.”
He gave me a smile that was almost smug.
“What?” I demanded.
He leaned close and pressed a warm kiss to my lips.
“I may,” he said, “just have had a brilliant idea.”
– 3 –
Monday, April 2
“Still no sign of him,” my mother said, peeping out the living room window for the umpteenth time. “I suppose I should stop checking because you know what they say?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell us,” I said.
“Watching a kettle won’t make it boil any faster.” With a last peep at the path and road outside, she sat down and scrutinized my appearance critically. “Goodness, Garnet, it doesn’t look like you’ve even brushed your hair this morning, let alone put on any makeup.”
“I’m not going on a date, Mom. I’m just going to try to help him with his investigation.”
“But he’s an agent. A special agent. I swear, I haven’t been this proud of you since you started first grade. I feel dizzy with excitement!”
My father, reading yet another book about Ted Bundy, gave a long-suffering sigh. “Have you forgotten to take your medicine again, Crystal?”
Her brows drew together. “Oh dear, I think I might have.”
“Mom! That’s serious. You have to take them the same time every day. Without fail,” I said.
Far too often, my mother forgot that she was on a regime of blood thinners and blood pressure meds for a very good reason. She’d suffered a mini-stroke the previous year.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m just so distracted. It’ll be a whole new body for you to investigate, Garnet.”
“It’s more likely to be an old body,” my father said. He, too, seemed keyed up about the impending arrival of Agent Singh.
“Why old?” I asked.
“If the murder happened recently, they’d have a body and lots of forensic evidence to analyze. They wouldn’t need to go out on a limb with unorthodox methods like these.”
“I guess.”
I scraped the nail of my forefinger across my lower teeth, searching for an uneven edge. Unevenness — on nails, on skin — bothered me. It niggled like a task undone, an itch unscratched, a sneeze suppressed. For me, it was impossible to resist. Knowing that I bit my nails, and peeled and picked at my skin — that I had onychophagia and excoriation disorders, to be psychologically precise — did nothing to help me stop the horrible habits, especially when I was very upset or nervous, like now.