The Virginia Criminal Investigations Department is in a modern high-rise building that is white concrete and glass and otherwise unremarkable. Eli expertly parallel parked the Blazer across the street from the building where the VCID was quartered. Aaron and Eli stayed outside by the SUV and I accompanied Bill to his office. All the way from Norfolk to Newport News, an argument prevailed about who was going to accompany Bill to the police station. Aaron almost won the contest, but at the last moment, Bill asked me to come with him. As Bill and I walked toward the building, a glance over my shoulder told me Aaron was still pouting.
I knew Aaron wanted to be a part of this whole investigation in a big way, but Bill’s reason for asking me to accompany him was so that I could keep him calm and remind him that Cap would only be playing with him when he took the badge. Bill didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his chances of coming back to work once Phobos was stopped. Aaron understood but was still pouting about it. Maybe he simply wanted to see the inside of the Virginia Criminal Investigations Department building.
We stepped off the elevator and into a reception area. The only way to get into the working part of the suite was to be buzzed in through the electric lock on the door. Bill waited while the lady at the desk dealt with a black teenager who was demanding to know when a friend was going to be released. The woman merely continued with her paperwork and told the girl, without looking up, “I told you already that I didn’t know and I still don’t know. Sit down.”
The girl started again, and the woman behind the desk looked up at Bill, very pointedly ignoring the loud black girl. “Hello, Detective,” she said and she reached for the button that would unlock the door. Bill and I headed through toward the door and the black girl shouted, “How come they get let in?”
The woman at the desk said simply, “Because the detective works here. Sit. Down. And. Shut. Up.”
I didn’t hear what the girl mumbled under her breath as moved back to the well-worn metal chairs in the outer office.
We passed several cubicles that did little to drown out the hum of activity. People talked on phones and talked to each other. Bill passed a cubicle and the man there said, “Hey Bill. Who’s your girlfriend?”
“Shut up, Franklin,” Bill responded without looking around.
“I’m just saying...” Franklin said.
“Well, don’t,” Bill said over his shoulder. Bill increased his pace and I nearly had to run to stay close to him as he headed for the end of a long line of cubicles. Next, Bill walked past several offices, some occupied and some not. He stopped in the middle of the row of offices that were mostly glass. The glass door said in bold black letters, Detective William C. Townsend, Homicide.
Bill’s office was like Bill, himself: disheveled, unkempt, and seemingly all over the place, but with an underlying organization. My first impression was papers, folders, scraps of newspaper clippings, and file cabinet drawers that hung open. Bill’s desk chair was as worn as his car. At one time it was black leather but after years of use, bare patches punctuated the seat and armrests and a tear worked its way down the center of the back. Two folding metal chairs leaned against the edge of the tan metal filing cabinet, presumably for those occasions when he entertained “guests” in his office. The phone was a modern push-button Internet phone. I admit I expected to see a rotary dial. The walls were glass from about two feet off the floor, but nearly totally covered with papers, posters, photos, and clippings that had been taped up, one over the other. I couldn’t guess how many layers of things were on those once transparent walls. The window behind the desk had the blinds drawn and I imagined that Bill spent little time looking at the view of the James River. Bill did have an expensive laptop on top of the debris that coated the top of an oak desk that was as battered as the chair.
Bill grabbed his laptop, handed it to me, and then whispered, “Okay, let's get this done.” Outside of his office, Bill shouted, “If Cap wants my badge, he can come get it.” All the noise and clatter in the office abruptly stopped.
A black man stepped out of an office that was next to Bill’s. “Cap finally get tired of hearing about your psychic weirdo crap?”
“Shut up, Tom,” Bill snapped.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” The one called Tom said. “No more of your oddball theories. We can finally do some real police work.” Several of the people milling around the area laughed at Bill. If they only knew the real truth, they would not be laughing nearly as much. Bill was going to stop one of the most notorious psychic killers of all time. Bill would be a hero in the truest sense of the word. And that has always been one of my jobs, helping heroes succeed.
Cap stepped out of the elevator into the reception area and yelled toward Bill, “Townsend, don’t you leave here, yet.” He had likely left the crime scene immediately after we did to arrive in Newport News so quickly. Bill stood and waited for Cap to approach him, not trying to close the distance between them. Most of the men and women in the room inched closer to Bill, likely because they sensed a confrontation and wanted a closer look. And people don’t believe in psychic abilities. Amazing.
Cap stood in front of Bill and said, “Your badge, Townsend. And your gun.”
“It’s not fair, Cap, and you know it.”
“I know it? Listen, Former Detective Townsend, you start telling the FBI about your psychic killer ideas and I look like a moron. You definitely look like a moron. You are on suspension until further notice. Give me your badge.”
Bill pulled the shield out of his pocket and tossed it toward Cap. “And choke on it.” Cap caught the badge after fumbling a couple of times. The badge went into a jacket pocket.
Bill turned to leave and Cap stopped him with, “Your gun, too.”
Bill removed the rumpled gray suit coat and handed it to me. His white shirt was as wrinkled as the coat, but he had a shoulder holster on. He removed the holster, unloaded the gun, and gave the gun, holster, and bullets to Cap. He grabbed up his coat and stalked toward the door without putting it back on. This time I had to truly run to keep up with him.
Just before the elevator doors opened, I got a strong psychic message from Cap: “Catch that bastard.” I glanced over my shoulder and saw him staring at Bill and me. I nodded and followed Bill into the elevator.
The Virginia Criminal Investigations Department was happy that Bill was out of the picture so they could play with their own pet theories or ignore the problem. The FBI was happy Bill was out of the picture because they wanted to pursue the idea of a new kind of neutron bomb. Bill was happy to be out of the picture because now he could move in the fringes to find the real killer without getting the Virginia Criminal Investigations Department, police, or FBI agents killed in the process. Bill was a happy man.
Both Eli and Aaron leaned against the side of the Blazer, arms crossed over their chests. Bill pulled the back door open and told Eli, “I need to go to my house to get my backup gun.”
Eli nodded. He walked around the Blazer to hold the door open for me and then returned to the driver’s seat. He waited until Bill said, “Go up Washington to 35th,” Bill instructed. “Then, right on Huntington. That’ll get you to Jefferson. Head north on Jefferson.” Then, to me, “Did you hear Cap? I mean when we were at the elevator?”
“Yes, I did. He said, ‘Catch that bastard.’“ Bill nodded as I said it.
“No wonder he never blasted me about my psychic stuff. He is, too, isn’t he?”
“It would appear so.”
Bill looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “I always wondered why he always listened to my theories. Sometimes, they didn’t pan out. Sometimes they did. But, I never knew he was psychic.”
Aaron asked, “Well, what happened up there?”
“Nothing really. I gave my gun and my badge to Cap. Now, I don’t have to worry about going into the office every day.” Bill smiled at Aaron. “I can spend all day every day arguing with you.”
“Yeah, like that’s productive,” Aaron replied.
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“If it’s not productive,” Eli said to the two of them, “then, why do you spend so much time arguing with each other?”
Together, just as if a conductor stood in front of them with his wand, they both chorused, “Because he won’t listen when I’m right.”
“Like I said,” Eli said to me. “A monster. We created a monster.”
Bill gave us the address to his house and we arrived within minutes. It was a stately old house that was in remarkably good shape for its age. The yard was neat and well-kept. I suspected a lawn service took care of that part. Outside, the walls gleamed white in the afternoon sun and windows sparkled as if they had just been washed. The wooden trim around the windows was yellow and the window boxes that were bursting with flowers were painted the same color as the window trim. The house looked like a little girl’s dream doll house.
Aaron asked the question that was on the tip of my tongue. “You live here?” emphasis on the here, please.
“Yeah. It used to be a crack house and we busted all the people who lived here. I bought it and moved in a few weeks later because it was really cheap. Talk about a mess inside. I spent five years fixing the place up. I still have some work to do on it. But, that is how Detective Townsend relaxes on days off... Not that there are too many of them.”
We followed him across the front porch that had three old-fashioned rocking chairs placed at regular intervals to the right of the cherry-red front door. Bill produced a large, old-fashioned key from his pocket and unlocked the door. We stepped into the foyer that led to a long hallway. To the right of the front door, I could see the living room, and to the left, the dining room. A staircase traced its way up to the second floor. Under our feet, the hardwood floors gleamed as if they had just been polished. “Very nice place you have here,” I said.
“Yeah, I got a cleaning lady. The kitchen is straight back on the left. I got beer and pop in the fridge. Get anything you want.” Bill headed up the stairs, two at a time, and vanished through a door at the top of the stairs.
I glanced around the living room which was done in shades of red, white, and yellow. I wondered if Bill hired an interior designer or if he accomplished the look by himself. It was a cozy room that had no TV. Points for that. Two yellow floral loveseats faced each other in front of the fireplace and a large red overstuffed chair rested in a far corner. Likely, Bill spent a great deal of time in that chair because it looked comfortable and the small table beside it was covered in books and papers—the only unkempt area in the whole room.
I followed Aaron and Eli down the hallway into the kitchen. The kitchen was something out of a dream, large and spacious. The cabinets were tall and old-fashioned and the butter-yellow refrigerator looked like it was made in the fifties. The stove had an old feeling about it, too. Dotted on the counters that were probably the original tiles, sat a toaster, blender, coffee maker, and other normal things you expected in a kitchen. Bill painted the walls sunshine yellow and hung red plaid curtains over the large kitchen windows.
This kitchen was large enough to have a table, so I sat in a convenient chair. My night of torture and my short nap were taking their toll. I used a ton of psychic energy at the crime scene. I felt tired. I felt detached. I also felt very hungry. I had eaten very little since the previous day. I didn’t have unending reserves of energy, even with my new power base helping to bolster my flagging puissance.
Eli sat beside me and placed a Coke on the table in front of me. “Bill has some place here, doesn’t he? Totally not what I expected.”
I nodded my agreement.
“You all right?” Eli asked. A deep frown crossed his face, creating tiny wrinkles between his eyes.
I shook my head in the negative. “I am very tired and very hungry.”
Aaron obviously heard me because he announced, “Hey, Athena, Bill has some leftover fried chicken. You want a piece?” Aaron pulled his head from the interior of the refrigerator.
“Yes,” I said, simply.
Aaron added, “There’s potato salad and some green beans.” A pause and then he added, “Oh, man. There’s chocolate cake, too.”
Aaron began placing the bowls of food on the table and Eli opened several cabinets until he found some white ironstone plates. He put four on the table, assuming that Bill would be down shortly. Eli found paper napkins and flatware in a drawer between the white porcelain sink and the vintage stove.
By the time Aaron and Eli had the feast ready, Bill entered the kitchen and asked, “What did she leave for me this time?” His hair was wet from a shower and he wore tan board shorts and a black North Face tee shirt. His bony feet slipped into flip flops. This was the first time I had seen Bill in his relaxed state. The skateboard grunge look worked for him.
“Which, she?” Aaron asked.
“Sally, the cleaning lady. She leaves me food every week. She does shopping for me, too. Groceries.” He looked over the table and sat, quickly and grabbed a chicken leg from the pieces in the white bowl. “She makes the best fried chicken.”
We spoke little during our meal. Once I finished, my only thought was a good night’s sleep. I was eager to go home.
“Hey, listen,” Bill said, while he was well into his second piece of chocolate cake. “Why don’t you guys stay here? It’s bigger than your place, Athena, but that wouldn’t be hard. I got four bedrooms, although one is still not finished.”
I nodded and Eli said, “Sure. After I eat another piece of this cake, I will go back to our place and grab a few things.”
“Done,” Bill said. “It’s not often I have guests here. My mom and dad visit about once a year and my brother and his family come once in a while. Mostly, they all spend their time here bitching because I don’t live in New York anymore.”
We finished eating, and then Bill and Aaron cleaned up the dishes. Aaron and Eli popped out of the kitchen, leaving Bill and me alone.
“This house is not what I expected of you,” I told Bill.
“Yeah, my office is a mess and so is my car. Sally won’t clean them, even though I have asked her to. I gave her free reign here. She cleans, shops, and cooks. Anything breaks, either she or her husband fixes it or she calls in someone. She’s been cleaning for me since I bought this house. She came in one day and looked around like she was familiar with the place or something. Turns out, she used to be a crackhead, but she got cleaned up and she married the cop that busted her. He’s in drug enforcement. Anyway, she comes up here and asks me if she can work here one day a week. I said yes.” He leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers together behind his head to create a headrest. “I mean, I was still working on the place, back then and it was slow going. She did a lot. She painted stuff like that. I have been paying her once a week for the past five years.”
“She sounds very loyal to you.”
“Yeah, she is. She doesn’t work and she has no kids. I am her science project. She wanted to see if she could neaten me up, some. It looks neat around here because I don’t do anything to mess it up.”
“Who is your decorator?” I asked.
Bill actually looked embarrassed. “Uh, it’s me. I find stuff and bring it home. I am always looking for a bargain. Just a week ago, I found a bedside lamp in a garbage heap beside the road. It just needed a new light fixture. I picked parts up at Home Depot and fixed the lamp myself. Got it in my bedroom.”
“You have done an amazing job with this house.”
“Yeah, I plan on staying here for the rest of my life. It might as well be a nice place.”
I smiled at him and didn’t bother to smother a yawn.
“Today has been hard for you.” Bill rose from the chair and then said, “Come on. I’m gonna put you and Eli in the big guest room. It has a queen-size bed in there and the other room only has a double. Aaron will have to suffer. But the sheets are clean and the rent is free. What more can you ask for?”
“A bathroom?”
Again, Bill looked embarrassed. “Holy Hannah, I am such a crappy host. My mom told me to always show the ladies the bathroom first when they come to visit.” He held out a hand and pulled me to my feet. “There is a half bath under the stairs. Sally calls it The Harry Potty. You know, after Harry Potter living in the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys’ house.”
I stared at him. “Have you read Harry Potter?”
“Yep. The whole series.” He laughed at my look and said, slowly. “Yes, Bill can read.” Then, “Come on. There is a bathroom upstairs. You’ll have to share with Aaron and Eli, though.”
“No problem,” I said as I followed him up the stairs that seemed endless.
He pointed toward the bedroom on the right, at the top of the stairs. “That one is yours. Your bathroom is the next door down.”
I nodded and walked toward the room indicated. The bathroom had a claw-foot tub, a pedestal sink, and a toilet that literally had a chain that must be pulled. The tiles were white and yellow in the bathroom and I was starting to sense a theme. I suddenly knew Bill’s favorite color was yellow. I used the toilet, rinsed my mouth to remove the vestiges of dinner, and washed my face. That was the extent of my ablutions.
I walked to the bedroom that Bill indicated and he was in there, spreading clean white sheets on the iron bed. It had a white chenille bedspread with blue and lavender flowers in the center. I remembered chenille bedspreads from years before, and I knew they were making a comeback. This one was old. I fingered the soft, fluffy fabric and willed Bill to hurry with the sheets. I wouldn’t last much longer.
A blue and lavender braided rug covered part of the floor, a brown rocking chair sat in a corner by a window, a five-drawer chest of drawers occupied one wall and the opposite wall had a small dressing table with a lavender vanity chair in front of the large oval mirror. “Sally decorated this room,” Bill said. “It is a little more girly than I would have done, but I like it.” Girly was a good word for it. White lace curtains covered the windows and a large stuffed bear made his home in the rocking chair. A vase of white silk flowers lived on the dresser and a pair of lamps with lacy shades were perched on each of the bedside tables.
Bill kissed my forehead as he walked out of the room. “Sleep well,” he said over his shoulder.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my shoes off. They were only sandals, but the effort seemed monumental. I removed my white skirt and only then realized there was blood on it. A large stain on one side. There was blood on the sleeves of my blue shirt. I must have been far more tired than I realized because I hadn’t noticed it earlier. I left my clothes in a heap on the floor and slipped between the cool smooth sheets.
Sleep prevailed within seconds.