“You said they weren’t even sure it was one of his — this serial killer’s, which makes me think it could be his first kill,” my father continued. “And you can learn a lot from that. The first kill, the body itself and where it was disposed of, is always hugely valuable to the investigation.”
My father had always been fascinated by murder and especially by serial killers. He had a wall of books on everyone from the Blood Countess Elizabeth Báthory to the West Mesa Bone Collector and could tell you each of their usual modus operandi or victim of preference. It was a surprisingly macabre pastime for such a mild-mannered man, but as I lived in my own glass house of weirdness, I wasn’t in any position to throw stones at his peculiar hobby.
“Why’s it more useful than any other kill?” I wanted to know.
“Because the first murder is more likely to be spontaneous. The killer wasn’t planning on killing that person at that time, in that place, or in that way, you see? He might slip up on the first kill and leave behind DNA, fingerprints, or other evidence, especially if it happened before the whole world and his wife started watching CSI. With subsequent murders, serial killers tend to get more careful.”
The doorbell chimed, and we all stood up. My mother smoothed her dress, but my father, who wore a serious expression, said, “It’s not too late to call this off, kiddo.”
“Da-ad, we’ve already discussed this.” I sidestepped him and headed for the front door. “Why wouldn’t I want to help?”
“There are just so many ways this could turn out badly,” he said, following me.
He wasn’t wrong. There were a bunch of ways this could flop. Maybe I wouldn’t get anything from touching the item Singh was bringing me. Or worse, maybe I would get a reading, but it would turn out to be unhelpful or even something that would send the investigators on a wild goose chase, wasting time and resources and allowing the killer to remain undetected.
It wasn’t like I knew what I was doing with my psychic ability yet. The visions occurred erratically and unpredictably, and although I trusted my skill more now than I had in the beginning, I still couldn’t control it. On the one hand, I wanted to help with the investigation, but on the other, I was terrified of failing miserably. I should probably follow my father’s advice and call the whole thing off.
Instead, I opened the front door and greeted Special Agent Ronil Singh of the FBI resident agency in Rutland. He looked as spiffy as the last time I’d seen him, and clearly, he had brushed his hair that morning. Dark suit and tie, white-button down shirt, polished black shoes, black briefcase. I half-expected him to slip on a pair of sunglasses, whip out a silver tube, and erase my memory.
“Ms. McGee,” was the sum total of his greeting.
“Nice to see you again …” What was I supposed to call him — Ronil, Ron, Agent Singh, sir? None of those felt right. “Come in,” I said and stepped back to introduce him to my parents, who were hovering behind me.
“Welcome to our home, Special Agent Mr. Singh. We’re delighted to meet you,” my mother said, all but curtseying. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Singh shook his head. “No, thank you, ma’am.”
“This way.” I led him to the living room.
“How about a cup of herbal tea? I have ginger, fennel, ginseng, and ginkgo,” my mother offered. “Turmeric too. That’s excellent for inflammation, you know?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I’m fine.”
“Have a seat,” I said.
“Yes, make yourself comfortable, Agent Singh,” my mother said. “My house is your casa.”
I glanced at Singh to see what he made of that. My mother had a habit of confusing words and phrases, and she could be difficult to understand. But his face remained politely blank.
Determined to be hospitable, she said, “Earl Grey?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Singh said.
“Would you like a cup of Earl Grey tea?”
Perhaps realizing that she was quite capable of listing every liquid refreshment in the house until he accepted one, Singh said, “A glass of water, if that’s not too much trouble.”
My mother hurried off to the kitchen, and my father settled beside me on the couch. Singh sat in the same spot he had on his previous visit, directly across from me with the coffee table between us.
“So, how can I help you?” I asked him.
“I’ve brought an item connected to an ongoing investigation in the hope that you might be able to provide me with information regarding it.”
My father made a small sound, drawing the agent’s attention. “You understand that … that these are just sort of vague impressions Garnet gets. I mean, it’s not like they’re real records of what actually happened.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.”
My mother, who’d obviously been following every word of the conversation, called from the kitchen, “You’re like Cassandra, dear. Never to be believed in her hometown, that is the sad fate of a prophet.”
Singh gave me an incredulous look, but before I could deny any claim to being a prophet, he told my father, “I assure you, Mr. McGee, no one appreciates better than I do that these … visions are not reliable evidence.”
“If you’re so sure that you can’t get anything useful from me, then why the heck are you here?” I demanded. It was one thing for me to consider my visions unreliable. Hearing it described that way by others riled me.
Singh raised open hands. Perhaps I’m too desperate to rule out any possible line of inquiry, the gesture said, or perhaps I’m just a fool.
“What information do you hope to get?” my dad asked.
“Whatever your daughter is able to give us.”
I took a breath to speak, but my father wasn’t done grilling the agent. I guessed that having discharged his duty in warning law enforcement about the doubtful value of my gift, he now felt free to indulge his rampant curiosity about murder. “Do you have any idea who this killer is? Have you developed a profile on him? Do you know what his motivation is? Is he still active? Do you know if he’s even still alive?” he asked eagerly.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose any information about the investigation, sir,” Singh said.
“But you do have some theories? Any suspects?”
“Dad,” I said and gave him a look that told him to shut up.
My mother returned with a tray bearing four glasses and a pitcher filled with water in which floated a fistful of leaves and set it on the coffee table. “I added some sage for heightened memory, rosemary for clarity of mind, and” — she pointed at what appeared to be a piece of bark lying on the bottom of the pitcher — “cinnamon for intuition.”
After pouring a glass that contained more foliage than water, she handed it to Singh. I grinned. I bet he wished he’d accepted the offer of plain old coffee. If Ryan had been here instead of the agent, we would’ve exchanged a glance and then looked away quickly to avoid laughing. But Singh was a serious fella — he eyed the glass doubtfully. He’d been skeptical of my abilities and perhaps even of my sanity before he’d met my parents; whatever must he be thinking of me now? He said nothing, however. Placing the glass on a coaster on the table, he opened his briefcase and extracted a plastic evidence bag.