Murder on the Mind (6 page)

“Where do we start?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. At the funeral.”

CHAPTER 6

Richard and I showed up at Christ the King Roman Catholic Church half an hour before the funeral Mass was due to start. We had to park on a side street three blocks away.

Days earlier, I had realized I was picking up the feelings of my fellow passengers on the plane. Yet, even with that experience under my belt, I wasn’t prepared for the prickling sensations that radiated from the mob outside the church.

The murmur of voices vibrated through me like the buzz of a hive. The press of close-packed bodies seethed with a myriad of emotions. I penetrated the gathering, swallowing down sudden panic. Fists clenched, I gulped deep breaths of air so cold it scorched my lungs. Richard’s eyes bore into mine. Was he waiting for me to freak?

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Two policemen stood atop the church steps, keeping the horde of newsmen, photographers, and rubberneckers at bay. Private security had been hired, too. A man in a black overcoat checked names of mourners against a list on a clipboard. We didn’t bother to check in with him—he wasn’t about to let us in. With nothing much to see, I wandered through the crowd, eavesdropping.

Refused entry, a man spoke to a woman in low tones. “Matt and I were friends for over twenty years.”

“There’s no point hanging around,” she said. “Maybe United Way will have a memorial service for him.” She took the man’s hand and led him away.

I scanned the crowd, seemed to recognize one of the reporters, who stood with a still photographer, but I couldn’t place the face. I turned aside—didn’t want him to see me in case he recognized me, knowing I’d feel foolish when I couldn’t come up with his name.

Behind me a clique of young people stood huddled in a knot. “Think Diane even knows we’re here?” someone asked.

“I’ve never been turned away from a funeral before.”

“Like you’ve been to a million funerals,” her friend said.

A white hearse turned the corner, waiting for the crowd to part so it could stop by the church’s side entrance. I had to stand on tiptoe to watch as the funeral director and his associates escorted the bronze casket into the church. Where were the official pallbearers? This wasn’t like any funeral I’d ever seen or been part of.

Richard glanced at his watch. “Mass will be at least an hour long. You don’t want to wait until it’s over, do you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I should’ve done something. Asked people questions, but I didn’t know who to single out—or what to ask. If the people standing outside the church weren’t on the official attendees list, were they close enough to the victim to have known anything that would help me?

Richard stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Jeff, your cheeks are getting chapped. Your lips are practically blue. If I didn’t know better, I’d diagnose you as cyanotic.”

“Don’t you mean hypothermic?”

“Come on, let’s go home.”

I looked back at the crowd. He was right. Coming to the church had been a complete waste of time. Besides, Richard looked frozen.

“You win, old man. We may as well go before the cold settles in those arthritic bones of yours.” Truth was, I felt lousy, but I wasn’t about to admit it to him.

As we neared the edge of the crowd, I broke through a ribbon of triumph—the same as I’d felt in the dreams.

I whirled, scanned the blur of faces around me.

The killer was there. Somewhere.

I shouldered my way through the mourners, heading for the barred oak doors, but my inner radar had already switched off.

Organ music blared from loudspeakers mounted on the side of the building. Pain lanced my brain as I rushed forward, searching for someone I couldn’t even recognize.

The big doors banged shut behind a dark-coated figure. I dove for the brass handles, and a thick hand grabbed my wrist.

“Hold it, pal,” the officer said sharply. “Unless your name’s on the list—”

“I’ve got to get in there! It’s an emergency!”

“What kind of emergency?”

I stared into the cop’s skeptical face. “Who just went in?”

He glared at me.

“Please! It’s important.”

A hand grasped my shoulder. I spun around.

Richard. His eyes mirrored mine—an unspoken panic. “What is it?” he shouted over the music.

“The killer’s inside.”

He stared at me in disbelief. “Who?”

“I don’t know.”

I’d felt that presence, that gloating sense of triumph. Then the contact was gone—camouflaged by the mass of people still assembled on the steps, the trampled grass, and sidewalk.

* * *

Back in my room, I downed a couple of the little pink tablets and crawled onto my bed. My plan for the rest of the day was to keep a low profile. Richard hadn’t said a word to me on the short ride home. Maybe that was good. Then again, I didn’t like being condescended to either.

I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep, but my mind refused to rest. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d experienced at the church.

If I was going to work on this case—and that’s just what it had become to me—I’d have to approach it like one of my insurance investigations.

I got up, found a sheet of paper, and filled both sides, writing down everything I knew. Then, armed with a pair of scissors, I trucked out to the garage and the recycling bin to retrieve every newspaper article on the murder. I dumped the brain injury pamphlets in the trash, stashed the articles in the big manila envelope, and deposited it in my bottom dresser drawer.

A fat phone book sat on the kitchen counter. I grabbed it and settled at the table to make a list of numbers. First up was the public library. Richard hadn’t offered me the use of his computer, and the Internet, and I wasn’t about to ask. I’d never been a sportsman, so I knew next to nothing about deer hunting. I figured I’d better educate myself on the subject with some good old-fashioned books.

I called the Department of Motor Vehicles about a replacement copy of my driver’s license. With no ID, I was a non-person. I waded through the recording for what seemed like forever before speaking to a human being. Contrary to DMV lore, she was courteous and helpful. Good thing I’d gathered up so much potential ID. I’d need it to get a duplicate of my license.

Next on the agenda, I had to get started on the legwork before the trail got too cold. Time to face the enemy.

Richard was in his study, parked behind the big desk, reading. He’d changed out of his mourning attire to yet another cashmere sweater and dark slacks, every inch the man of leisure.

I cleared my throat, feeling like a sixteen-year-old with a hot date and no wheels. “I need to borrow your car.”

“Are you crazy? You’ve admitted having hallucinations, your arm is in a cast, making you a danger on the road, and you want to borrow
my
car?”

“How else can I get around?”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough excitement for one day?”

“Come on, Rich. I’m a good driver.”

“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” His expression darkened in irritation. “And where would that be?”

“The cemetery. Then Orchard Park.”

“To do what?”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “To talk to people?”

“About Sumner? Why?”

“To find out who killed him, of course.”

“How’re you going to pass yourself off?”

“What’s wrong with saying what I am—an insurance investigator.” This was beginning to feel like an interrogation.

“Because you’re not working for anyone at the moment. And misrepresenting yourself will cause trouble with the law.”

I stepped closer to his desk. “What do you suggest I do? I know things about this case.”

“It’s not your case!”

“What if the police never find who killed Sumner? Look, I have to do something. I know things about the situation—things I can’t explain knowing. Am I just supposed to sit around and do nothing while a murderer runs free?”

Richard’s voice possessed that deadly, practiced calm so characteristic of the medical profession. “Tomorrow we’ll go to UB and we’ll—”

“No, damn it. And stop patronizing me. I don’t need a psychiatrist and I resent the implication. I just need—”

Need what? It sounded crazy even to me.

“Just let me borrow the car.”

“No.”

“Then tell me how to get to Forest Lawn Cemetery from here and I’ll walk.”

Richard sighed. “I told you, I will drive you anywhere you want to go.”

I grabbed him by the arm. “Then let’s go.”

* * *

Sometimes it seems like just about everything in the city of Buffalo is either directly on or just off of Main Street, and Forest Lawn was no exception. We didn’t talk much during the ride. I wasn’t yet adept at judging my brother’s moods. Was he truly angry or just annoyed?

We drove through the cemetery’s back gate, and Richard slowed the car to the posted ten miles per hour down the narrow roadway. The tombstones stood stoically against the brisk March wind.

“Where to?”

I had no idea, hoping the funny feeling inside would guide me. “Take the next left,” I bluffed.

Richard complied, and we meandered down the single lane of asphalt, following the twists and turns through the older, more historical sections and then into the newer parts of the cemetery.

“This is hopeless, Jeff. How’re you ever going to find Sumner’s grave among all the thousands here?”

“Well, for one thing it’s fresh.”

Richard glared at me.

We came to another crossroad and I pointed to the right. Richard slowed the car as a lone woman dressed in dark sweats jogged toward us. Solidly built, with pink cheeks, she looked like she’d been out in the cold for some time. Richard muttered something under his breath, and I kept a sharp lookout, hoping I’d know Sumner’s grave when I saw it. Instead, that weird feeling vibrated through my gut.

“There!”

A mound of freshly-dug earth marred a snowy hillock. The crowds had gone. No headstone marked the grave, just the disturbed ground and several sprays of frozen roses and carnations. Richard stopped the car and I got out. I walked up the slight hill, looked around, saw no one. Good. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, concentrating—waiting for that funny feeling that had been guiding me, for some fragment of intuition to drift into my consciousness.

Nothing.

I frowned. The niggling feeling that had drawn me here was still strong, but whatever compelled me to come had not been the victim.

I heard the hum of a power window. “Well?” Richard yelled.

“I don’t know.”

The window went back up and Richard revved the engine.

I ignored him and walked around the grave. Many sets of footprints marred the light dusting of snow, but only one stood out in the freshly smoothed-over dirt. I stared at the prints. Someone had stood here for several minutes, judging from the depth of the prints. Someone in jogging shoes. I compared the print to my own foot and frowned. About the same size. Lots of people jogged through the cemetery, so who would’ve noticed if one of them stopped at one particular grave for an inordinate period of time on a cold, wintry day? It was probably one of the mourners—maybe even the one I’d tried to follow into the church. Too bad we hadn’t hung around until after the Mass. But then how would I have known what to look for?

I closed my eyes, concentrating again, hoping to suck up some residual . . . feeling, sensation—
something
.

Nothing.

I looked down at the prints and placed my own feet on either side of them. I closed my eyes, my right hand balling into a fist. Yeah. Now I was getting something. Triumph? Yes, the person who’d stood here felt triumph over the dead man—the same emotion I’d experienced in the dream. Already I trusted these feelings . . . hunches? . . . as real.

And there was more.

Dread.

But dread didn’t adequately describe it. Overwhelming despair made my eyes tear. The quack in New York had said a head injury fucked with your mind, and now I couldn’t tell if the emotions bombarding me were my own or the dead guy’s.

Suddenly something I’d felt so sure about only seconds before seemed insubstantial when I tried to analyze it rationally.

None of this was rational.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. I took a breath and gathered my resolve. Okay, so what was I experiencing? I closed my eyes—thought. Cold, calculating, bean-counter mentality at work.

Thoughts that were not my own crept into my mind, lingering like a fog:
Youprickyouprickyouprickyouprickyouprick.

Nothing new in that.

Try again.

Eyes closed, breathing steady, sensations seeped into me. My fists clenched in righteous indignation.
That fucking prick had it coming to him.