“Well?” he demanded when I dropped the button on the table.
“Do you want to know what I saw or what I felt?” I asked, my voice breathy.
“What you saw.”
I poured myself a glass of the ridiculous water, and between sips, I told him exactly what I’d seen, no more and no less.
When I finished, he asked, “Can you describe the hands?”
“Male.” Whether I’d been able to tell from the appearance or whether it was just a feeling, I was certain those hands hadn’t belonged to a woman. “White-skinned. No wedding ring. I would guess left-handed.”
“Anything exceptional about the hands? Like a scar or a mole?”
“Nope.”
“You said the victim was dead. How could you tell?”
“His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving.”
“He might just have been unconscious.”
“Ah, well, that’s where my pesky feelings come in.” I gave Singh an expectant look, wanting the satisfaction of forcing him to ask about my sensations and intuitions, but he said nothing, and after a few more seconds of silence, I caved. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you,” I said. “There was a deadness there.”
“A deadness?”
“Yes, an absence of life. A deep emptiness, a cessation of all life-emanating vibrations,” I said, laying the mystical terminology on thick enough to make my mother proud and Singh exasperated.
Looking like he was suppressing a sigh, he reached for his glass of water, clocked the vegetation floating around inside of it, and set it back down. “The hands that were holding the button, do they belong to the same man in the visions you claim to have had about Wertheimer’s death?”
Claim to have had? “You want my gut feel?” I asked.
Singh gave the slightest of nods. It was as much encouragement as I was ever likely to get from this die-hard cynic.
“Well then, gut feel, yeah, it’s the same guy.” I set my glass back down on the tray. “Do you know when this victim went missing?”
He said nothing.
“I think it wasn’t that long ago. Am I right?”
No reply.
Singh was beginning to piss me off. It wasn’t fair that our communication here was all in one direction. I had a growing need to rattle his self-assured silence. Placing the tips of my fingers against my temples, I rolled my eyes upwards and lowered my lids slightly, hoping he would see only the whites of my eyes.
In the most ethereal voice I could muster, I said, “I think he went missing sometime in the last two years. What’s that?” I asked as though listening to an inner voice. “Twelve and sixteen. Ah, I understand. Thank you!” I opened my eyes and said confidently, “He definitely didn’t go missing before December 2016.”
Singh’s eyes bugged. Too late, he schooled his features back into their usual impassivity. “How did you— what makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling,” I said, needling him further. “It felt more … fresh than the other visions.” Also, the white object lying on the ground beside the victim’s head was an Apple Airpod. Those had been released just in time for Christmas in 2016. I remembered because my father had offered to buy me a pair for my Christmas present, but thinking they looked ridiculous, I’d asked him for a donation to a new phone instead. Now, seeing Special Agent Just-the-facts-ma’am Singh at a complete loss for words, I smiled. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
He didn’t deny it. Running a finger around the inside of his collar, he asked, “Was there anything else?”
I glanced at the two buttons on the table, then picked them up, and holding one in each hand, attempted another reading. I had to push aside the images from the newer button and try to direct my focus to what might lie between them.
I was more certain this time. I slipped the buttons back into their baggies. “There is some kind of connection between them. I felt it as a kind of closeness. But I couldn’t say if that was literal or figurative. I wonder … Was the body this came from” — I held up the baggie with the green plastic button — “found near this one?” I held up the other.
Again, he didn’t answer my question, but I had a feeling I was right.
“They were, weren’t they? This one matched the pattern of previous victims, but this one didn’t. Were there only the two bodies?” I gasped as a sudden thought intruded. “Are these from that new site with all the bodies? The one in the Nash Stream Forest?”
He took the baggies from my hands, his lack of denial as good as a “yes.”
“They are, aren’t they?” I pressed. “What was different about the first one? Did all the others have buttons on them? How many victims did you find?”
He returned the baggies to his briefcase, closed the lid, and clicked the locks shut.
“Let me touch things from the other victims, and I’ll be able to tell you more,” I said.
“No,” he said baldly.
“How about a bone from one of the skeletons?” There was a note of pleading in my voice. “That green button … that murder was recent. Is he still active? You’ve got to stop him, and I can help you, if you’d just allow me!”
“We don’t typically allow civilians to assist us in our investigations, unless they are experts, qualified, legally recognized experts,” he clarified nastily. “Or unless they were direct witnesses to the crime.”
“Then what was this today?” I challenged. “You’ve seen what I can do. You know it’s legit.”
“Why do you even want to be involved? Investigations into serial killers are ninety-five percent brain-rotting tedium and five percent life-threatening danger.”
“I’m going back to Boston tomorrow, but you can still get hold of me on my cell. I’d be willing to travel to Rutland to assist you, if that’s what it takes.”
“You know, Ms. McGee, law enforcement takes a dim view of people who appear too curious about a particular crime or who are too persistent in trying to insert themselves into the investigation process. Because you know who typically does that?”
“Nice, kind, helpful people?” I suggested.
“Suspects, that’s who.” He stood up to leave, thanking me for my time.
I trotted behind him to the front door. “I wouldn’t tell anyone I was helping you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. And if you give me more information or more access to the investigation, I’m pretty sure I could give you more insights.” Lowering my voice a notch, I added, “Quid pro quo, Agent Singh.”
He turned to give me a look that was equal parts disbelief and derision. “You’re quoting Hannibal Lecter at me?”
“Don’t make me do the tongue thing,” I said.
“I think we’re done here.”
He left without shaking my hand. Standing in the doorway, watching him stride down the path to his car, I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps he’d been afraid to touch me in case I got a reading off him. I wished I’d been able to stow myself away in his briefcase because I wanted in on the hunt for this killer.
When I’d died in Plover Pond, the same spot where Colby had been murdered all those years ago, I came back from the other side with aspects of Colby now part of me — his dislike of anything too sweet, his taste for beer and black coffee, and his passion for justice. That last part was growing in me, and there was no going back.